Chaos
by purrina57
Summary: "The ghost of a grin flashes over the boy's face. Then he leans down, and his breath is hot and heaven against her lips. 'Hold it like this. Aim. Shoot. Kill.' 'I can't.' 'Sure you can. Just pull the trigger. It'll be easy. He's asleep. He'll just never wake up again, never hurt you again.' She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. Aims." Bonnie/Clyde-esque JxC futuristic, dark
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: NEW STORY! YAY! Okay, so this is going to be a darker story. That's a major warning to all those that enjoy happy, fluffy stories. It's going to (hopefully) be gritty and a little strange and dark. In my mind, it's like a futuristic Bonnie and Clyde type of story. There were definitely be a plot. Lots of character development, as, if you've read my other things, you'll know I lean towards. It's futuristic but an alternate universe at the same time. You won't see a bunch of differences in the way things are done. **

**Clary and Jace will have a very weird relationship, one that borders on psychotic. It's not that I know anyone like this, but I've always been fascinated by Bonnie and Clyde and their murderous dynamic. So that's why I'm going in this direction. If you don't think you'll enjoy that, or if you think that this kind of twisted, blood-shedding relationship is weird, then you might not want to read this. It's definitely going to be kind of out there-at least, I hope so. Both Jace and Clary are unhinged in their own personal way. Their actions a lot of times don't make sense to us, to normal people, but I hope to convey a certain realism to these strange characters, nonetheless. Also, Jace and Clary WILL have moments of tenderness-it won't all be hardcore and freaky. **

**I'm also trying third person POV for the first time. Usually go with first person, but I thought it'd be better suited for this story to go with third. If I ever skip into first, I apologize in advance. Let me know how I do, please! (:**

**Anyway, without further rambling on my end, I'll go ahead and get to it. Please enjoy and PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks, y'all! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

"Stupid little bitch," he snarls right before his hand cracks over her cheek. She tilts backwards, but he grabs her arm, tightly enough to leave more bruises, to keep her from falling so he can hit her again. The sound of his anger and violence fills the air, makes her tremble in fear and pain.

"Stop, please," Clary sobs, her voice broken and small. She didn't mean to knock over his bottle, didn't mean for it to shatter and fill the air with the sweet stench of alcohol. "I'll clean it up!"

"Damn right you will," the stepfather mutters. His hand tightens around the soft, barely-there flesh of her upper-arm for only a moment longer before his rage has subsided and he flings her away.

Clary topples to the ground, landing in the mess of glass and sticky liquor. She feels a shard slice into her palm, making her cry out. She raises her hand and with trembling fingers, plucks the glass from her skin with a wince.

"Get moving!" the stepfather snaps, motioning at the disaster area, before he drunkenly staggers to the bedroom, to wait for Clary's mother to come home. He slams the door with shuddering force, but Clary feels nothing but relief at the sound, relief so great hot tears begin to stream down her face.

Once he goes to the bedroom, he doesn't come back out until the next morning. She'll be safe, now.

Clary sits for only a moment longer, her body aching, before she stands and cleans up the mess her clumsiness made. Once she's finished, she goes on to clean the rest of the cluttered, cramped apartment. Her mother's place is like all housing for the poor in Alicante—designed for maximum use of space, built with multiple cubbies and loft beds and pull-out couches. It's like suffocating.

The young, small redheaded girl scans her work and finds it satisfactory. Her mother will at least be pleased. So she cleans the wound on her hand and then climbs out onto the fire escape.

If she peers around the slummy buildings, she can see the shimmering, cool blue neon light coming from the heart of the city, where the rich live. It feels a little less claustrophobic when she sees that, reminds herself that there is more to the world than this tiny apartment and the stepfather and broken bones and hidden bruises.

She stuffs herself in the corner of the fire escape, tucking her knees up to her chest, and she tilts her head back, trying to make out the stars in the navy sky above. It's impossible, though. The lights of the city blot them out.

So Clary shuts her eyes and tries to imagine them herself, with an artist's eye. She almost has the fickle image dancing beneath her lids as she breathes in the cool, gritty air of the outdoors, feeling the tightening in her chest fade just slightly.

She wishes she could live outside, on the roofs, in the air—like a bird, maybe. A little sparrow that no one notices, that can fly, that has simple desires and no complex thoughts or emotions.

She nods to herself. That's what she wants to be.

So she begins envisioning herself as that, and the picture comes more easily to her than the stars. She smiles a bit, her heart pounding at the thought of weightlessness, of dipping and soaring and spinning in the air. How beautiful—

Her thoughts are shattered by voices.

She springs to her feet immediately, casting her eyes back into the apartment in a panic. Has the stepfather gotten back up to hit her with the belt like he likes to? But the apartment is still quiet and empty, piled with junk and books.

The voices are from below.

Clary spins and leans against the rickety banter of the fire escape, peering down into the urine-drenched, darkened alley below. There's only a little yellow light from the streetlamp beyond, allowing just enough illumination for Clary to see two men.

"Listen," the one man pleads. He has his hands up, palms facing outward. "You don't have to do this. I can pay you—whatever they're paying you, I'll double -triple-it."

The other figure is blond, Clary sees. His golden hair is jagged, standing up wildly, even though its short. He moves slowly and smoothly, a predator stalking his prey, and she watches in frightened fascination.

"I'm not interested in money," comes the cool, drawling reply of the blond.

The retreating figure stumbles on an old crate as he moves backwards. The wood of it splinters against his feet. "Shit! No, now, wait…we can work something out."

"I don't really think we can, Robert," the other says, walking faster now towards the man. His voice is getting excited, despite the obvious restraint he's using.

Clary watches in still horror as he digs into his coat pocket and produces something that flashes once.

A gun.

Clary gasps and quickly smacks her hand over her mouth to quiet the sound.

"Come on, son. Please. I have a family," the man, Robert, says. He's backed to the end of the alley, now, so that Clary can see his panicked face as he presses back into the wall, a trapped rabbit with the fox steadily approaching.

"That's really not my concern," is the fox's simple reply. Then he raises the gun, and without hesitation, three soft little "pffts" shudder in the air.

The prey drops like a stone, falling into a heap on the vomit-covered ground.

Clary's eyes are wide, frozen.

The other figure walks over, rummages around in the dead man's coat for something, and Clary leans forward sharply, trying to see, her curiosity wild and morbid, and that's when she remembers the railing isn't very stable.

It groans, creaks, and then shrills. Clary tips forward, the metal giving away, and she lets out a startled cry, flying for a moment. Her hands reach out in desperation, somehow manage to grab onto the edge of the fire escape landing. Her legs dangle terrifyingly.

"Well, well, well," comes that now-familiar drawling voice.

Clary's blood runs cold. She tries to pull herself back up, but her arms are flopping spaghetti noodles.

"What do we have here?" The voice is closer to her now, almost directly beneath her.

Clary bites her lip, tries again to drag herself up, but she can't, not even with fear pumping in her veins. "Stay away," she warns weakly.

"Or what? You'll fall on me?"

She huffs in aggravation and disappointment at herself. Her legs kick a few times in nothingness.

"Do you need help?"

"NO!" she cries. "You just killed a man!"

"So you saw that. That's unfortunate," he sighs, but in an upbeat, agreeable kind of way. Then he moves directly beneath her. "Let go."

"What?" she demands.

"Let go of the edge. I'll catch you."

"What if you're lying? And you're going to let me drop because I saw you kill that man?" she inquires.

"I'm not going to let you fall. It wouldn't even kill you—just break your legs at that distance. Let go," he orders again, and his voice is so firm and authoritative that Clary, surprisingly, listens.

She sails through the air, breathless and flying like she wants to be, for just a brief moment until she's landing in strong arms, gasping and blinking up at a shockingly beautiful face.

He's all gold, like an angel, golden skin, and huge, luminescent amber eyes—otherworldly eyes. He's so perfect he takes her breath for a moment, makes her own emerald eyes widen into big disks. Her lips part in wonder.

"You okay?" he inquires, arching an eyebrow.

It takes her a moment to realize he means after fall, not after seeing his face. She quickly stutters, in embarrassment, "Y-yes. Thank you."

He grins, a half-cocked grin that briefly curves his lips. "You're very welcome." Then he tips her, letting her slide out of his arms to the ground. She feels his hands scrape the denim over the back of her thighs, and heat erupts on her skin.

She stumbles away from him, straightening her shirt, and then hears a sick squish as she steps in something. Looking down, she sees its crimson, and then casting her eyes back over her shoulder, she sees the man the angel just murdered. Robert has a bullet between his slammed-open, sudden eyes, and two where his heart used to beat.

Clary bites her bottom lip and glances back at the beautiful boy as he unscrews something off his gun carefully. He's watching her with starry-bright eyes that smolder. His head is cocked like an animal.

"Why'd you kill him?" she finally whispers.

"I was paid to," the boy says casually. "Had to make it look like a gang killing. That man is involved in some highly illegal activity-won't be much of a surprise to anyone to see him dead like this."

Clary nods once, disjointedly.

The boy grins as if she's done something to delight him. "So are you going to call the police?"

"No," she says, suddenly, almost surprised by the thought.

The boy's eyebrows arch lazily. "Really?"

"Really," she replies shyly.

"Huh." The boy takes his gun, lifts his shirt up, jams it in a holster. She sees a strip of golden, smooth skin layered over defined, hard-looking muscle, and red colors her cheeks, her heart squeezing. "You're just going to let me go?"

"Yes." She frowns, a bit in confusion. "You're the one with a gun."

At this, the boy lets out a startled bark of laughter. "That's right. People sometimes get a little heroic, though, in situations such as these." He tilts his head in thought. "I've never been caught before, myself. Strange that I'd get nabbed by a ten-year-old."

"I'm seventeen," she hisses with sudden vehemence.

The boy holds his hands out in surrender, rolling his eyes. "Excuse me."

She looks at him, at the long, sharp cut of his body, the broad width of his shoulders, the strength oozing from each pore of him. Even his bone-structure is strong—hard, beautiful lines, like he's been cut from glass. "Are you an Assassin?"

The boy eyes her for a moment. "Yes."

Clary pauses, only briefly, before blurting out, her words one rush of breath, "Will you kill someone for me?"

The boy's brows arch in a slow but surprised way, and his eyes narrow. "No. I'm too expensive for you."

"You told that man you didn't care about money," she protests.

The boy crosses his arms over his chest, his head cocking to the side as he regards her coolly. "That's true. I'm still not killing anyone for you, honey, no matter how cute you are. The people I work for don't like me doing freelance."

Clary feels desperation well inside her, the gravity of an important moment passing by, slipping through her fingers. "Please. I'll do anything."

The boy's grin returns, dark and a dangerous flash of white teeth in the night. He drops his arms and moves closer, a slick, fluid step. "Anything?"

Clary looks up at him, feeling how very tall he is, gulping in her throat against that realization. "Y-yes."

"That's a big promise, sweetheart," he whispers before he reaches out, brushes a few strands of her red hair from her cheek. His fingers are very warm and rough feeling. It sends shivers down her spine, into her stomach.

"Please," she says, her voice quiet and subdued as she stares helplessly up at him. "Please."

The boy inhales deeply through his nose, his brows pulling together as he stares down at her, at the skin his fingers brush over. Then his hand drops and he says, "Show me the person."

Excitement coursing through her, she turns from him and runs up the fire escape, making a racket. He follows behind her so silently, though, that she has to turn around and check to make sure he's with her still, that it isn't a trick.

They climb through the window, into the quiet apartment. She steals across the thin kitchen, to the bedroom door. She turns towards the boy, finds that he's right behind her, engulfing her in the strangely male scent of spice and leather and metal. It's a very nice smell.

She tilts her head back and looks up at him. Whispering, she says, "He's in there."

The boy's hand goes to the gun at his hip, and he opens the door without making a sound, peers into the darkened room. Clary sees the stepfather lying in the bed, snoring loudly. She can see the lump of his body beneath the sheets scattered with striped illumination falling in from the slatted blinds.

"Who is he?" the boy inquires, glancing down at her.

She gets caught in his golden swirling gaze. Her lips part long before she speaks. "Stepfather."

"Ah." The boy reaches out, touches the side of her face again, and she feels now how tender it is. She realizes he's been fingering the angry bruises forming on her face. "Did he do this?"

"Yes."

"And these?" His fingers drop down, skimming over her jaw, down her thumping pulse, to the soft and old-bruised skin of her neck where the stepfather tried to choke her to death two weeks earlier.

"Yes," she says, still trapped in the universe of his eyes.

His fingers keep trailing down, over the soft, delicate skin layered over her collarbones, and then the dip lower, to the edge of her t-shirt, making goosebumps rise, making her shudder like she's cold but she's hot—all hot, all over.

The ghost of a grin flashes over the boy's face because he sees her reaction easily. Then he leans down, and his breath is hot and heaven against her lips. "Take this."

She frowns, opening her mouth to ask what he means, but before she can, she feels the cool press of his gun in her palm.

"Right handed?" he inquires.

She nods jerkily, opening her mouth wider, ready with questions, but he won't have it.

Instead, he grabs her suddenly, making her gasp in delight when he pulls her sharply against his hard body. She feels her stomach squeeze with foreign emotion, feels itchy and tingly.

"Hold it like this," he instructs, and he makes her take the same stance he had earlier, the gun pointed out in front of them both, his arms around her, helping her take aim. Then she feels his fingers close around hers, manipulating them until her index finger is curled around the ice-cold trigger. The boy's voice sounds at her ear, warm and alive and shivering. "Kill him."

Clary freezes in his hold. "Me? I can't."

"Sure you can. Just pull the trigger." He finger taps hers, the one poised to take the stepfather's life. "Do it, sweetheart. It'll be easy." His free hand is suddenly resting against the supple skin of her hip, and she feels the individual press of each of his fingers when he flexes them.

Her head is heavy.

"Just shoot the bastard. He's asleep. He'll just never wake up again." The boy turns his face, so each word he speaks is a kiss against her ear. "He'll never hurt you again."

She's shaking, unsure what's come over her body. She feels alien, jerky. She can't take in a proper breath. She finds herself wondering for the first time about kissing, about how this boy's lips would feel against her own. They feel so delicious against her ear, they would feel even better against her mouth, wouldn't they?

"I can't do it. You do it," she insists before she looses her mind completely.

"I already told you. I can't. I don't do freelance. So either you shoot him, or you don't. Your choice."

Clary trembles once, her finger twitching on the trigger. It would be easy. Just pull it back and let the bullet fly. The boy already has it aimed at the stepfather's chest. She shuts her eyes, breathes deeply.

And then the stepfather wakes sharply, suddenly, his snore breaking off. He sits up, a jerk of movement, flickers on the light. His red, bloodshot eyes are enraged and staring straight at Clary. "What the hell?" he roars, and he's already moving, ready to get up, to finish strangling her, to not get caught by Jocelyn this time, to actually kill her.

And something strong takes over Clary, and she does it.

She pulls the trigger.

The gunshot is louder than it was below, shattering through the room, making her eardrums wince.

The stepfather staggers once, his hand flying to his chest in shock. Crimson is oozing over his wife beater, from the wound Clary has just made. He stares down at it in detached, unreal sort of horror before his drunken eyes are back on her, furious now.

So she shoots again.

And again.

And again.

Until the gun just clicks softly, nothing more coming out. Until the stepfather is lying splayed over the bed, unmoving, scarlet running out of him, soaking the bed sheets.

The silence rings.

Clary's stuttered gasp echoes harshly in her ears, and her hand jerks so wildly that the guns flies from it. It clatters to the floor.

Her wide eyes go to the boy, who is eyeing the mess with some kind of approval. He glances over at her and says, "See. I _told_ you you could do it." Then he meanders over, bends down to grab the fallen gun. He places it back in its holster with careful adoration.

"I killed him." It doesn't need to be said, but Clary still says it.

"Yes, you did. Quite viciously, I might add. Good aim, though." He looks over at her, pride shimmering in his eyes. "Nice work. One less abusive bastard in the world." And with that, he walks towards the bedroom door.

Clary's hand shoots out, grabbing for his upper arm, but her small hand won't close around the muscle there. She likes that, but her thoughts are too disjointed for her to really take notice. "Where are you going?"

"Back to whence I came, darlin'."

"You can't leave."

"Why can't I?" He arches a brow, and an almost playful smile dances over his lips. "You gonna kill me, too?"

Clary's desperate, fearful—not of the death of the stepfather, but of being left alone. "I'll get in trouble for it."

"You say it's self defense. God knows you have enough bruises to prove it true. You won't get in trouble."

"My mother won't have me anymore," Clary cries, her voice rising in panic. She hasn't thought any of this through. "She'll hate me! She loved him! She'll never forgive me. She'll get rid of me, like she got rid of Daddy."

"Your mother sounds like a class act."

"Please!" Clary whispers, and she suddenly finds herself throwing her arms around the boy's waist, hugging him tightly, pressing her cheek against his hard chest, squeezing her eyes shut. She misses hugs, hugs from her mother, warmth and sweetness. This hug isn't the same, though. It's nice, to be close, but the body is wrong—too hard and too male. Instead of feeling peaceful, Clary feels excited.

"Jesus," the boy mutters. His arms hover a bit awkwardly away from her. He hasn't been hugged in a long time. "What exactly are you asking me for now?"

Clary doesn't know, so her mind works frantically to make up a good answer. She pulls her head away from him just slightly and looks up his body to meet his eyes, her arms still vise-like around him. "Take me with you."

"I can't—" the boy breaks off, sighs loudly. "Let go of me, first of all, before I pass out from oxygen deprivation."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, letting go reluctantly.

The boy steps back a bit, looking down at me carefully, his eyes narrow. "You really want to go with me?"

Clary's heart beats hard in her chest. "Yes."

"You have a life here. If you go with me, you can't come back."

"I don't have a life here," she says, quietly, not with any self-pity but with soft truth ringing behind her words. "I just have my mother, and she doesn't love me anymore."

"But you love her," the boy guesses, correctly.

"Yes."

"You won't be able to see her ever again."

"It's okay."

"It's _okay_?" he repeats, arching his brows. When she nods, he sighs and rubs his jaw. "Damn. You are a cold little thing."

Clary only scowls a bit, rubbing at her arm, feeling the bruises forming the stepfather left earlier.

The boy tilts his head back and forth, his lips pursing a few times. Wheels turn behind his eyes, and then he says, rather suddenly, "I'll regret it, but come on."

"Really?" Clary squeaks, nearly jumping in excitement.

"Yes. But if you're one of those people that ask really after everything I say, don't bother going with me because I'll shove you down a flight of stairs if you are," he warns, pointing.

"I won't do it anymore," she vows.

"All right." He nods once, firmly. "Come on, then, before the cops show up." He struts past her, smelling of boy, and she admires the way he walks—confident but quick, a quiet swagger in each step. He peeps over his shoulder at her, seeing she's still in the doorway to the bedroom. "Get those little legs moving."

She does, rapidly, running after him, a bounce in her step.

"You need to bring anything?" he asks ducking out the window gracefully, like a cat.

"No," she says, climbing out after him, scurrying.

"Nothing at all?"

"No. I told you I don't have a life here."

He pauses, just for a moment, staring down at her with this unfathomable look in his eyes. Then he sighs, a deep, weary sigh that's more for show. "You seem like the type that might try to cut my throat when I'm sleeping."

"I'm not," she protests as he begins a light jog down the fire escape steps.

"Nothing wrong with it," he calls to her, merrily. "I'm the same type person."

* * *

They walk down the street a few blocks, until they arrive at a sleek looking, jet-black motorcycle. It's fluid and quick, even in stillness, and Clary stares at it longingly as the boy turns towards her.

"I take it you've never killed anyone before," he starts out, casually.

She shakes her head "no."

"How do you feel?" he inquires.

Clary thinks about it for a moment, searching herself for the answer. She finally finds it and says, as best she can to put it into words, "Strong."

"That's the right answer. If you had said guilty or some other bullshit, I would've left you." The boy nods once before throwing his leg over the bike easily, a swift, natural movement. "Hop on, sweetheart."

She climbs up behind him, a little less elegantly, and he has to tell her where to put her feet.

"Hold onto me," he says, reaching behind, grabbing her hands and moving them to rest against the cool leather of his zipped up jacket. She grabs on tightly. "I'm Jace, by the way," he announces before he does something to make the motorcycle beneath them growl to life, like a panther.

And then, before she can respond with her own name, the motorcycle is slipping forward, onto the road, and dashing towards the heart of the city, where the cool neon of the skyscrapers cuts into the sky.

The wind tears through Clary's hair, touches her face, and so she closes her eyes and gets her wish.

She's flying.

* * *

**Thoughts? I would love to hear what y'all have to say. I'm thinking I might get some strongish reactions to it. It's a little weird, I'll admit. Of course, that's what I'm going for. Trying to branch out as a writer! Let me know what y'all think pretty please! (:**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Chapter 2 because I can't leave off on an odd number! AH! Anyway, here's the next piece of info. Keep in mind, this will be a dark story. Not horrifying, I don't think, because I can't bring myself to write that kind of thing, but hopefully, dark in a good way (if this is possible...y'all know what I mean). I must admit, I'm really enjoying writing an off-the-wall Jace and Clary. I get to play up with their insanity, and their lack of remorse and their strange thought processes. I must admit it's rather freeing, as the writer, to be able to tell the story without having to provide plausible explanations for each action. Clary is just kind of doing her thing, along with Jace, and they don't care who understands it.**

**Anyway, weird little author's note that no one really wanted to read is over! Enjoy (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO  
**

Jace wonders what he's doing. He feels the girl's tiny hands gripping at his jacket tightly, feels her cheek resting against his back. She feels frail, even now, with only her hands and face touching him. It makes him go a little slower on the bike than he normally would. He likes to see how fast he can go each time he gets on, to see if he can break his record without getting caught by the police—not that they do anything when they pull him over and see just who he works for.

He's untouchable, really.

The girl shifts behind him, drawing his scattered brain back to her. That's right, he was thinking of her—not his need for speed. He sighs a little. His mind after a kill is always jumbled. The only time he's ever focused is when he has a mission, a purpose. He wonders what he'll do when he's too old to crawl through windows, to dance between lasers, to do what needs to be done for one in his profession.

He'll probably die miserable.

If he even lives to grow old, which he probably won't, so it's a moot point thinking about it.

The girl. Right, the girl.

_What am I doing?_ He muses to himself. This is obviously going to go bad. He can't have a fucking tourist in his line of work—not to mention a distraction. If he, God forbid, forms an attachment to this little broken thing clinging onto him as he zips through the streets of Alicante, someone will inevitably use that to his disadvantage.

But something about her is interesting. The way she's tiny, bruised-skin-and-bones, but steely beneath. The way her amazingly big emerald eyes are timid yet piercing and intense, unwavering when they look at him, like she's peering into his soul. It's both unnerving and exciting to him.

He likes the way she didn't flinch after killing that bastard that was her stepfather. He likes the way she doesn't seem to judge him for killing that bastard in the alley. He likes that she didn't react like a normal person would to seeing a murder, because he definitely isn't a normal person. He likes that he doesn't feel as alone with her.

Already, he's too close—which doesn't happen to him. Ever. Is it just because the girl is so strange that his reaction is so strange? It must be. He's never encountered anyone like her before, that's for damn sure.

Or maybe he's getting too soft. Maybe he should kill her now, cut to the chase, before anyone else can and hurt him with it. Because if he lets her live, he'll get even closer to her. Then where will he be? Screwed royally, that's where.

He should have never let her tag along in the first place. She was just so desperate. Usually desperation in someone makes him sick, makes him enraged. He kills anyone that begs for mercy quicker than those who don't. Yet he didn't kill the girl. Her desperation wasn't repulsive to him—just…sad? No, he doesn't get sad. That isn't it. Maybe just familiar? Yeah, that sounds right.

He accelerates a little, feeling the wind rip harder against his face. No, he can't slow down for the girl. If she can't handle it, she'll leave or get killed either one—problem solved.

Jace smiles to himself a little, pleased with his solution.

He won't change anything. He'll just keep going like he always has, and he'll see if his assumptions about this girl are right or wrong. He'll see if she can keep up.

* * *

Clary's legs are shaky as she climbs off the motorcycle.

They are in the heart of the city now, with the lovely skyscrapers shooting up all around them, beautiful and stunning, sleek, black, shinny with cool blue neon trying to pierce through the dark night clouds above. Life thrums around them, strange, fancy cars with special lights in them zipping past the intersections like wild below them, where they are standing in a parking garage.

Clary is amazed, breathing hard and walking over to the railing of the garage, peering down the ten stories below to see the Inner City people walking about, laughing and talking, wearing such luxurious clothes. Skin-hugging leather seems to be the most popular item. Almost all the women wear it, along with spiky boots.

Clary looks down briefly at her own raggedy jeans and t-shirt with a small frown. She's never thought much about her clothes until now.

"I wouldn't suggest falling off that one," Jace announces to her, drawing her attention over to him as he begins walking backwards. "Don't think I could catch you."

Clary flushes a little, a shy smile tilting her lips.

"Come on," he orders and spins on his foot, strutting towards an elevator. Clary scurries after him, not wanting to loose track of him for even a moment. He feels unreal, like an angel visiting in her dreams, that if she looses him, she'll wake up and hear the stepfather screaming at her mother, screaming at her.

But this isn't a dream.

This is real.

Clary stares in amazement at the apartment.

The floors are shiny, faintly shimmering, black tiles, covered here and there with thick black rugs. The sleek furniture is leather—black, too, of course. There are a few plants here and there amongst the open floor plan, allowing deep green shocks of color amidst the dark décor. Everything is made of glass or steel. There's so much emptiness, sparseness, and the walls are almost entirely made of windows, giving a panoramic view to the beautiful city around them, that sparkles like thousands of fireflies trapped in a jar, winking at Clary as she breathes in pure awe.

"This is beautiful," she says, despite herself.

Jace is leaning against the granite countertops of the modern kitchen. He's digging in his pocket for something. He simply shrugs.

"I suppose being an Assassin treats you well," she says, just a little wryly.

Jace pulls out a tiny, silver phone and offers a quick, dark grin. "Pays the bills." He winks and then opens the phone, hitting a few buttons, holds it up to his ear. He says, "It's done," and then hangs up, shoving the phone back in his pocket. His head then tilts at her curiously. "What's your name?"

"Clarissa," she whispers, looking down at the floor a moment. "Clary."

"Pretty name," he murmurs, and his voice is low enough that she glances back up at him, peeping through her lashes shyly. She watches in admiration as he shoves himself off the bar and walks toward her, slow and measured, lanky and powerful, reminding her of a cat once again, a cat with prey in its sight.

Her fingertips tremble.

He comes to stand right before her, so close she can smell him again, can feel the heat of his body, can almost feel the press of his hard muscle against her. She finds herself craving that contact again. She wants to feel him, wants to feel him against her so tightly she can't breathe, and already, the air in her lungs is gone—just imagining it. She doesn't understand this, but it's lust—lust coursing through her strongly for the first time in her bruised, innocent dreamer's life.

He looks down at her, his eyes dark and light all at once, so gold that it's like looking into the sun. He smiles a little, bites his lip, and his eyes dip down from hers, over her mouth, her chin, down her throat like a caress, to her heaving chest.

She feels funny, breathless.

And then, without warning, Jace has grabbed her upper arms, tightly, but unlike with the stepfather did it, it doesn't hurt. Not that much. It's just strong and unrelenting.

He shoves her back, a little roughly, but with gentleness, too, as to not hurt her, and she feels the shivering cold press of the glass against her back, the hot steel press of his body against her front.

Her gasp is sharp in the room, and she's a bit frightened. Frightened and excited, like she has been every single moment since she saw Jace, only now, it's intensified because she doesn't understand it. And there's always some wonder in things she doesn't understand.

His head dips down very close to hers. His lips are parted, as are hers, and he breathes in deeply, as if pulling the air from her lungs into his, savoring her, tasting her. It's almost animalistic, as if he's finding her scent, but she likes it and so she trembles harshly in his crushing hold.

His lips are at hers. She wonders if she'll get her first kiss. She wants it badly, so badly she lets out a soft, shaky sound that almost a whimper, and her eyes close because she'll burn up in his gaze if she doesn't.

Then she feels not the soft press of his mouth against hers but the sharp pain of his teeth digging into the supple pillow of her bottom lip, making her cry out in surprise. Heat rushes all through her, melting her stomach until it's uncomfortably hot, and she feels frighteningly tingly.

Her hands suddenly move, reaching out to grasp the sides of his shirt for dear life as he sucks her bottom lip into his mouth aggressively. His own hands slide up to grip her face, her neck, tilting her head, and then he is kissing her, though it isn't what she expected her first kiss to be like.

He's rough, angry almost, his teeth clattering against hers, his lips hard and relentless, and then he's thrusting his tongue into her gasping mouth, making her loose what's left of her mind.

His hands move again, grabbing handfuls of her hair, tugging her head back, making her cry out a little, and she feels his hot mouth slipping from hers, skimming over her chin, dragging down the arch of her throat. Her fingers slide up, digging into his hair, pulling at it like her hands belong to someone else. She likes how silky the strands are, how messy she can make it.

And then he's shoving her back against the wall a little, and his hands are at the front of her shirt and there's a shocking tearing sound that shudders in her ears, and she gasps in shock when she feels cold air breathing against her stomach.

She looks down and sees her shirt is hanging open, and the sudden violence of the movement has the most deliciously overwhelming affect on her body. She watches in horrified stupefaction as her nipples poke and press noticeably against the thin fabric of her pale green bra. This has only ever happened before when she's cold, but she's not cold, now. She's hot. Too hot.

Her confused, desirous eyes look up and find Jace staring down at the phenomena, too, with darkness dancing in his gaze, and her modesty suddenly rushes back to her, her mind returning.

She quickly pulls at the ripped halves of her shirt, pulling them together again to cover herself. "No," she whispers rapidly.

A half smile curves his lips as he stares down at her, a little wildness in his face. "No?" he questions quietly, and his hand returns to her face, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing her swollen lips.

"No," she repeats, firmly but soft.

He tilts his face forward, until his forehead almost rests against hers but stops just shy. His eyes drop down to her mouth as his thumb sensually drags down her lower lip. "Are you a virgin, Clary?"

She blushes fire, and is saved from answering the obvious, but personal, by a sharp ring tone slicing through the air. Jace immediately pulls back from her, scowling a bit, and she remembers what it feels like to breathe.

Impatiently, Jace jerks the phone from his pocket and holds it up to his ear. "What?" he clips.

There's a buzzing sound on the other line.

"Fine," Jace replies and then snaps the phone shut without another word. He takes a step back from Clary again and rolls his shoulders back, cranes his neck around a few times. Then his sun-drenched eyes find hers and he asks, calmly, "Care to go on a fieldtrip, sweetheart?"

* * *

Clary likes the motorcycle.

Already, she's getting more at ease on it, at ease with the flight. She only wraps one arm around Jace's waist, now, and lets the other dangle, occasionally lift up, too, as if she's soaring in the wind currents.

The city around them is alive with nightlife, people and cars and buildings every. Opulence drips from every fiber, filling the air with the heady scent of luxury. She can't believe this is real. She squints her eyes shut and opens them a few times, only to see the same breathtaking picture.

It's no dream.

Jace drives fast, and she likes that. She likes the way he zips through the cars, between dangerously narrow passages when traffic grinds to a halt. Everything he does is impatient but also graceful. Never once does he get careless with his haste.

But then it comes to a halt when he parks the sleek machine in front of a towering building shaped like a jutting knife. It gleams darkly in the reflected light of the other buildings around it, but the building itself seems to be made purely of black glass, no inner light shinning through.

"Come on," Jace says to Clary. He's already off the bike, surprising her, because she's still seated, with her eyes gaping at the building. He grabs her sides, lifting her easily, and setting her carefully on the ground. Before she can speak, he's already sauntering up to the front doors, and she trails more timidly behind him.

Jace slings the double doors open carelessly, and the duo walk into the stark, black-and-white lobby with the sharp furniture and harsh angles.

A pretty blond sits behind the reception desk, already smiling and batting lashes at Jace—until she sees Clary and her face turns sour. "Jace," the girl says.

"Kaelie," Jace replies, jerking his chin at her. He doesn't slow his stride towards a couple of elevators.

"Valentine is expecting you. Go on up," she says, rather needlessly because Jace is already hitting the button on the elevator and the doors are hissing open. He ushers Clary inside before slipping in himself, and then they are shooting up, Clary's stomach flying down to her toes.

Only a heartbeat later, there's a soft ding and the doors part again to expose a tall, lanky young man with snow-pale skin and a shock of ink-black hair. His dark blue eyes assess Jace and then flicker towards Clary. The young man's already pinched face turns downright disgusted. "What is that?"

Clary looks down at herself and the much-too-large black shirt she has on—Jace's shirt. It smells like him, and she likes how comforting it feels hanging around her but she realizes it is a far-cry from the skin-tight fashion that appears to be popular.

Her cheeks turn red.

"My lover," Jace announces grandly, around a pursed up grin as he tries to scoot around the young man.

Clary's face really ignites then, but the young man simply scoffs and says, "Yeah, right. How old is she? Twelve? I didn't know you had a sister."

"She's not my sister," Jace announces with a sniff in his voice. He makes a dramatically wrinkled face at the young man and adds, in the same tone Clary corrected him with earlier, "And she's _seventeen_."

"Oh, excuse me." The young man's face is dull.

"Are you going to move? Or am I going to have to resort to violence? You know I _loathe_ it," Jace says, motioning at the small space the young man is allowing us.

The other boy simply sighs and takes a step back.

"Thank you, Alec. You're a class act. I don't care what your mother says about you." Jace walks around him, shoving his hands easily in his pockets, marching down the glass-walled hallway.

"Ha-ha," the young man, Alec, says deadly as he follows.

Clary scurries along with them, nearly glued to Jace's elbow.

"How is your mother, by the way?" Jace inquires, taking turns in the see-through glass maze that is making Clary's head spin. She glances in multiple different offices, each looking a bit more modern and fancy than the last.

"We aren't talking about my mother," Alec says.

"Your sister then."

"Why are you so obsessed with the women in my family?"

"I'm making small talk, Alec. _Small talk_. It's what one does to ease the tension when dealing with a socially inept person—such as yourself."

"And people say you're charming."

"I _am_ charming! Only not to you because, as I said before, you are socially inept."

"Please just stop talking to me."

"Socially inept," Jace stage whispers back to Clary as they keep walking rapidly. He glances over at Alec, his eyes dancing. Clary can see his profile, see that pursed smirk of a little boy returning.

Alec's back to her, she hears his lengthy sigh. "I don't see how you aren't locked up yet—in the nuthouse."

"You have to be a little crazy to kill people, Alec. I like it that way. Killing people keeps me kicking, if you'll pardon the irony."

"Yeah, yeah." Alec halts finally, and they are at some solid doors now made of black marble. He glares over at Jace, his face drained of all lines. "He's not in a good mood."

"When is he ever?"

"He's not going to want to see that." Alec jerks his chin towards Clary vaguely.

She feels her heart squeeze, and she looks down at the floor in shame.

"Now, look what you've done. You've hurt her feelings. You monster," Jace says, and Clary feels his arm go around her, dragging her tightly against his side. He's so warm that she leans into him just a bit. "Now, Valentine will see both of us or he won't see either of us."

"Why are you being stubborn about this? Where did you even find her? You don't usually pick up strays." Clary still has her eyes down, but she hears the frustration in Alec's voice.

"I know. But look how cute she is. And she's very handy with a gun."

"She's used a gun?" Alec's voice drips disbelief.

"She did tonight. Shot the shit out of her stepfather—with a little push in the right direction."

"Jesus! You made her kill her _father_?"

"_Step_father. And I didn't _make_ her do anything, Alec. She asked me to kill him, and I said no, that Valentine would be unhappy with me—because you know how I love to follow rules—and so I helped her aim and she pulled the trigger. Filled him with holes. I was rather proud of her." Jace's hand goes under her chin, pulling her face up so she can see him and Alec peering at her. "She's got natural talent. I thought I could take her under my wing—really make something out of her. Mold her in my image, so to speak."

"Just what the world needs—another you," Alec remarks.

"I knew you'd see the light. Are you going to let us in or not?" he snaps, and his lighthearted tone has suddenly vanished.

Alec seems to have the good sense not to say another word. Instead, he opens the doors and jerks his chin at them, a signal to go on, so Jace walks in, dragging Clary along into a dark, wooden-paneled hall with portraits of various staunch-looking men hanging on the wall. Alec closes the doors behind them, sealing just Clary and Jace in the narrow space.

Jace immediately halts, looks down at her and says, clearly, "Don't speak until spoken to, understand?"

She nods, gulping once.

He nods back, pleased, and then turns, as if to begin walking again, towards the grand double doors at the end of the hall, but he pauses and looks back down at her. His tone is even more steady and serious as he adds, "And don't ever let anyone talk shit to you like that. Stand up for yourself, for fuck's sake. You might have used to let people talk down to you, but not anymore, all right? You're turning over a new leaf."

Clary stares up at him in the same kind of wonder she surveyed the city with, like the sun rises and sets with him. She finds herself nodding slowly and vowing, quietly and surprisingly strong, "Okay."

"Okay." Jace gives another jerk of a nod and that's all there is left for him to say.

He pulls her down the rest of the hall.

* * *

**Thoughts again? Please? Pretty please? Okay, so I'm going to put some pictures up of what I imagine this world to look like on my profile. Should be up in about five minutes. This is the last update for tonight, too, by the way! NIGHT-NIGHT/GOOD MORNING depending on where you are!**


	3. Chapter 3

**HEY! I am going to try, TRY, to post Chapter Four tonight because I hate ending on odd chapters. However, I probably won't be able to get it done. I'm going to try, though. Anyway, I hope y'all are enjoying it so far! I'm so encouraged and flattered by the reviews I've gotten until this point! Y'all are so sweet and amazing for saying such awesome things. I wasn't sure how a lot of people were going to take this. It's a little...freakish having your protagonists be cold-blooded killers. But whatever. It's not real. So it's kind of fun to explore the darker themes in life. Not that I'm advocating murder here. **

**Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

"Valentine," Jace declares charismatically as he slams open the double doors. Clary trails behind him, quiet and light-footed, her eyes roaming over the massive office space. Two of the four walls are made of floor-to-ceiling glass, giving an unhindered view of the firefly city, a view Clary can't seem to get enough of. The office itself is sparse and luxurious, cool wealth shimmering in the air, in every sharp line of the leather furniture.

A man sits behind a gigantic black desk, a desk that's shaped in an abstract way, with only a few level surfaces and lots of dips and arcs. The man, Valentine, is as polished as his domain—all contrasts of black and white. Black suit, black tie, white shirt, white hair, black eyes.

He smiles, a flash of teeth. "Jace."

"How are you?" Jace inquires, doing his slow lion walk towards the only chair in front of the desk. He falls out into it, his long legs sprawling, and Clary hovers by his elbow, unsure of where to sit herself. Jace's arm reaches out, almost like a reflex, slipping around her waist. With a sharp yank, she's falling into his lap, perched on his knee.

Valentine eyes the display for only a moment, his perfectly white smile reappearing. "I'm disheartened."

"By?" Jace inquires, and his eyes flicker towards Clary's arm. He begins drawing idle patterns on her skin, giving her goosebumps, making her uncomfortable.

"More problems that need taking care of," Valentine says, coolly but delicately.

"Not problems I've created." It's not a question. Jace's statement comes out direct and confident.

Valentine inclines his head. "No, Jace. Problems others less efficient than yourself have created. I'm afraid it's time to part ways with our dear friend Maia. Her problems have added up until it's become…unwise to keep her aboard."

Jace's face never changes. His finger keeps doodling on Clary's skin, but she thinks she might see just a subtle shift. A hardening in his eyes. "What has dear friend Maia done, pray tell?"

"I'm not at liberty—"

"To discuss," Jace finishes in a stuffy imitation of Valentine's voice. He rolls his eyes over to the sharp man. "I know. Figured I'd ask anyway." Jace tilts his head side to side, quickly, as if trying to pop his neck. "How do you want it done?"

"Quietly. Just make her disappear. By all accounts, she doesn't exist in the first place." Valentine's hands are a large temple hovering beneath his chin. His black eyes seem to dance with cold fire.

"Right." Jace nods quickly. "None of us do. I'd hate to think _I'm_ so disposable to you."

"You aren't. Trust me, Jace. You're the best we have." Valentine inhales once, cast his eyes over the flat-screened, paper-thin computer screen to the side of him. He adds, easily, "Mostly because you're the most heartless bastard I've ever met."

"Compliment accepted." Jace grins slyly before his tone shifts, and he murmurs, "So I suppose with Maia's untimely demise there will be a job opening?"

Valentine's eyes dance faster. He looks like a snake, a beautifully still, calculating cobra, as his gaze shifts over to Clary. He drinks in the sight of her, making her blood go cold. "So _I_ suppose the reason behind your question is perched on your knee?"

"You'd be correct," Jace replies. His hand drops to the small of Clary's back as his eyes level with Valentine's. "She's young, but I think she has potential. I was curious to see if I could take her under my wing."

"And work as a team or individually?" Valentine leans back a bit in his throne, his large hands resting lightly on his desk.

"Either. What ever works out best. I'd have to train her first, before we did anything—see if she can make the cut. Maybe she can't. Maybe she's too small, too frail." Jace's eyes flicker over to her, running up and down her frame differently than before. Sizing her up, the way he would any opponent, finding weaknesses and possible-strengths. "But we'll see. And I'll give a full report on her—if you think she's worth taking a chance on."

Valentine debates for a moment. His fingers press together and rise below his chin yet again. The black pits of his eyes regard Clary until she feels cold sweat on the back of her neck. He says, "Very well. She must be something if you've taken such an interest in her."

"Killed her stepfather without batting an eyelash. It caught my attention," Jace allows.

"Ah." Valentine smiles vaguely and nods knowingly. "So you have something in common with her. That's where the interest lies."

Clary's eyes immediately shoot over to Jace, but he merely looks forward at Valentine. Something in his face changes again, solidifies into ice, and he gives a glass-sharp smile at the older man. "Yes, well, before this conversation takes a horrifying turn onto memory lane and the inner psyche, I'd like to leave."

Valentine inclines his chin minimally. "Very well. Just remember about Maia. It needs to be done in the next week, before she gets suspicious."

"I won't forget." Jace pops his hand at the small of Clary's back, dangerously low, and it makes her gasp and shoot to her feet—his intention. He rises, as well, his eyes flickering around the office as he stretches. "I'll also like my paycheck for tonight by the end of the week."

Valentine's eyebrows arch in something like laziness, as if such were possible from a man like him. "You asking for your paycheck? What has the world come to?"

Jace's mouth tilts up on the corners briefly. "I have some things I need to take care of—personal things."

Valentine's eyes gleam with fierce curiosity, but he asks no further questions. Clary senses it isn't Jace's final tone of voice that holds the older man back. "Of course. The money will be in your account within in the hour. Good job, by the way. The police have already found him—think he got in deep with the wrong people. No other suspicions. You never fail to disappoint."

"Well, I think everyone's got some kind of God given talent. Mine's blowing people's brains out. You should thank God—not me." Jace is already drifting towards the door. His hands are shoved down in his slack pockets casually, and he turns his head back. "Clary, come on."

Clary is still frozen at Valentine's desk, her eyes on the man. He looks up at her, ensnaring her in the obsidian gaze that could be the devil's own. She shivers and quickly turns towards Jace, nearly running for him.

His arm slings around her shoulders as soon as she's close and he calls back to Valentine, "Nice talking to you, as always."

Valentine doesn't reply, perhaps because Jace is already shouldering through the double doors, pulling Clary rapidly away from the frightening man.

She finds herself back in the glass maze of halls only a moment later, Alec reappearing like dark smoke with a foul expression. He doesn't speak as he begins ushering them out of a place Jace seems entirely familiar with. She wonders why they still need a tour-guide—perhaps because they don't want anyone wandering around.

She wants to know what this place is.

"How'd it go?" Alec asks.

"Fine," is Jace's short response. He seems preoccupied now, in another world. His eyes are miles away. Clary can feel the distance already, even though his arm is still around her shoulders snugly.

"Still the golden child, then," Alec grumbles.

"Don't be mad because he likes me more," Jace says, mockingly child-like in his speech.

Alec just makes a vague sound of disgust but says no more as he leads them back to the elevators. He doesn't even offer a goodbye, and neither does Jace.

As Clary stands in the elevator, she peers back out timidly at Alec as Jace is leaning over to hit the lobby button. Alec is glaring at her with hatred that surprises her a little. His slim, long fingers dance in agitation against his pants leg. His face is carved from rock, with magma stirring underneath.

She swallows and can't look away, until the doors of the elevator hiss close, coming to meet right over Alec's face, and then she's dropping down, away from the new, from the frightening.

A moment later finds Jace and Clary strolling back across the lobby, towards the entrance.

"Have a good night, Jace!" Kaelie, the blond receptionist calls, maybe a bit hopefully.

Jace doesn't respond. He's let go of Clary now, has his hands stuffed back in his pockets. There's a glower on his face she doesn't understand. His eyes are far gone. He didn't even hear Kaelie to respond.

And then a tall, thin but shockingly broad shouldered boy walks into the front doors just as Jace is going to open them. The boy has jet-black, endlessly dark hair and eyes to match. Even in his expressionless, there's a smirking lilt to his mouth that seems to send Jace's already precarious mood spiraling out of control.

"Sebastian," Jace says between his teeth.

"Jace!" Now there _is_ a smirk on the young man's mouth. He reminds Clary of Valentine—the same suit, the same darkness, the same contrasts. But there's something infinitely sharper about this boy, even more so than Valentine. There's something ugly simmering inside him, and it's unashamedly on display. "In a hurry?"

"Just don't want to talk to you," Jace says, cheery, but with anger brimming beneath his voice.

Sebastian's laugh is dry and showy. "Your honesty is, as always, refreshing."

Jace's answering smile is tight. "I've already got a lot of strikes against me. I never thought I should add liar to the list. Of course, I'm sure you can't say the same, making a living being a lying bastard and all."

Sebastian's amusement is gone but a smile remains. "Watch your step, Wayland."

"Or what? You'll have your father fire me? We both know that won't happen. So keep your idle threats to yourself," Jace announces, shoving open the door. His hand grabs Clary's, pulling her along with him, and as soon as they are back into the city night, she feels the air is changed. It's colder. Maybe it was this cold all along. Maybe she only feels it now.

* * *

Clary stares at her reflection in the massive granite and steel and glass bathroom. Her eyes are huge, as always, and vibrant green. They are shaped in a way that makes her appear as if she's in a state perpetual shock and awe. Tonight, though, she is in shock and awe.

She runs her hands down the silken nightgown. It's black and has some lace on it, and it's very short, only coming midway on her thighs. Jace handed it to her after he'd disappeared for a few minutes in his carnivorous apartment. He told her it was all he could find until he got her some other clothes.

She stares at it curiously, along with her mane of curly, thick red hair that hangs all the way down to the extremely wide flare of her hips. She twists a bit and eyes the apparel. It's unlike anything she's worn before. It's so smooth and cool against her skin. It's very dark against her pale complexion, and it makes her look darker, too. And she decides she likes it.

Carefully, she opens the bathroom door and pads into the open living room and kitchen. The city around her is still buzzing with frantic energy, as if sensing the incoming dawn and the drive to make the last hours of night count.

Jace is nowhere to be seen.

Frowning, Clary walks silently in her bare feet towards a door she hasn't been behind yet. She pushes it open gently, peeping inside. Before her is a room almost as big as the main one. A bedroom. A massive black bed that looks very thin and modern sits in the middle of the space, flat on the smooth floor. There's closets made into the wall, the handles of the doors sparking silver in the illumination of the city pouring in from the grand window-wall that dominates the entire northern side of the room. There isn't much else in the room—only a bedside table with turned-off lamp and a neat stack of books.

Jace stands against the window-wall, his arms braced against it, his head bent down towards the city. He's only wearing a pair of dark black, silken-looking pajama pants, and Clary's eyes wander over his exposed skin, feeling very strange and curious in seeing so much of a boy. Golden skin is layered over is lean, hard-looking muscle. He's slim, but strong. She sees it in every sharp line on his back, the defined ridges and cuts of his stomach.

Her feet take her closer, and then she pauses, staring at him with rapidly dawning eyes.

He has scars all over his skin. She sees them now, the closer she gets, the more her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. The pale lines range from straight and thin, to large and jagged. She can't imagine what could have done this to him. Then Valentine's words echo back to her.

_ So you have something in common with her._

Clary's head tilts to the side.

And Jace turns towards her, as if sensing her presence. His eyes immediately drop down, examining her as she had just done him. His gaze is hot. She feels it warming her skin, feels it quickening the pace of her heart. She wants to hide away from him at the same time she feels a bit emboldened, a bit flattered, by the way his eyes drink her in.

"That looks good on you," he finally says, and his golden orbs meet hers as he leans against the window-wall with his right shoulder. He crosses his arms over his chest, a small smile flickering over his face as he watches her cheeks darken with blush.

She can barely meet his eyes, now. They glow in the light coming in from the city, the only illumination of the room, casting strange ghosts and shadows along the floors. "Thank you," she whispers. She looks down, fingers the lacy hem of the gown. "Do you have lots of women's clothing in your closets?"

Jace's chuckle sounds, sending a shiver up her spine. "No. That's from my neighbor, actually. I ran over and asked her for something. That's all she had that didn't involve sheer panels and corsets."

Clary peeps up at him, finds his eyes roaming slowly over her body once again. She thinks he might be wondering what she'd look like in one of those sheer, corseted pieces. At the thought, heat rushes into her cheeks again, touching her chest, as well. "Oh," is all she can say.

Jace's eyes just flicker back up to meet hers. A smirk dances on his lips.

They stare at each other for an immeasurable amount of time. There's ten feet between them, only the dancing random neon light of the city filling the empty space. It's quiet, except for Clary's breathing, which she hears loudly in her ears.

Jace's head tilts, cocking at her in that animal way of his. "I only have one bed," he says, jerking his chin over towards the mattress.

Clary's eyes go over to it helplessly. It's more than big enough for both of them to sleep without touching. But the rumpled black sheets of it still make her blush intimately. She feels so funny and excited.

_Is this real?_ she asks herself. She closes her eyes, tightly, and then opens them again. Same bed, same room, same apartment, same city, same golden boy.

So far away from her sleeping spot on the hard loveseat she had to pull her legs up to fit on. So far away from the pain of the stepfather, from the shouts of her home, from the crying and the suffocation.

_That_ feels like the dream now.

This—Jace and the apartment and the city—it's beginning to feel very real. Her old life is what has become fuzzy, impossible, like a half-remembered, sad dream. She already has trouble seeing her mother's face in her mind. She doesn't remember the smell of her home. Doesn't remember many things.

She frowns, trying to think back, but she doesn't want to. She doesn't want to remember. But nonetheless, she looks down at her small, pale hands. She sees the bandage over her right palm.

And then Jace is in front of her. He moves like a cat, silently, but she doesn't start when she feels his hands touching the undersides of her own. She simply looks up at him, in wonder, as he stares down, inspecting her hands that are so very small in his.

"What happened?" he asks. He brings one hand over to touch the bandage.

Clary has to think back for a moment, to remember exactly what did happen. Finally, after wading through murky memories, she says, "The stepfather."

Jace nods. He, with surprising gentleness, pulls the bandage off. There's an angry red line where the glass dug in. He runs his thumb over it, and it hurts and thrills Clary. "Let me clean it for you."

It's not a question, but Clary still says, "Okay."

Jace's eyes finally flicker up to meet hers from beneath his lashes. The gold swirls and dances. "Stay here." Then he's gone, leaving her behind in the cold bedroom. She can't help but drift over to his bedside table and look at the books, read their sideways labels.

Old books. _The Catcher in the Rye_, _The Great Gatsby_, _The Grapes of Wrath_, _The Lord of the Flies_. And on the very top is The Bible. Clary reaches out and traces the gold lettering, sighing.

"Come here."

Clary jumps and peeps shyly over at Jace, from the top of her shoulder. He doesn't look angry. He just looks waiting, with a bottle of something in his hand, along with a rag and a bandage.

She walks over to him, and he jerks his chin towards the edge of the bed. "Sit down," he says, so she does, right on the corner. He sits beside her. His weight dips the mattress more than hers, and she slips closer to him because of it. She can feel his warmth.

"Don't look so guilty, sweetheart," Jace says, grinning at her briefly before looking down, meticulously unscrewing the lid of the bottle. The harsh scent of alcohol hits her nose. "I don't mind you looking through my things."

"You have no secrets," she whispers, and all the glass and the openness of his apartment makes sense.

"That's right. My neighbors don't know what I do, of course, but that's only because they don't ask." Jace pours the clear liquid fire onto the rag carefully, spilling no drops.

"Would you tell them if they did ask?" Clary inquires, tilting her head as she watches him. She likes the way his eyelashes look against his high cheekbones, the way his lips part in concentration, how the shadows play with the strong elegance of his bone structure.

"I can't. Valentine would have me disposed of." Jace says this easily, without emotion. "But I'd want to. Secrets eat away at you."

"Until there's nothing left," Clary murmurs, almost dreamily.

Jace glances up at her rapidly. Something about his face is a bit surprised. "That's right." He doesn't have to ask if she knows from experience to understand. He simply holds out his palm. "Give me your hand."

She studies his own for a moment. Long fingers, large knuckles, golden skin, veins running blue with blood. Strong hands, too. Sturdy. But capable of tedious tasks. Gentle things. Careful things. Then she holds her own pale, frail looking palm out.

He takes it, his skin rough and warm, a contrast against hers. He dabs at the wound with the alcohol. It burns coldly, but Clary doesn't make a face. Jace, secretly, likes that she doesn't make a show about it, but Clary doesn't know that herself.

"Where did the scars come from?" she inquires, because his stance on secrets makes her more comfortable.

"My father." Jace's voice is once again matter-of-fact. "He had a temper. Liked to hit me with wrenches or belts. Sometimes used knives. He liked this old Swiss Army knife he had—vintage, passed down from generation to generation."

Clary watches him work over her hand with no hint of pity in her eyes. But there's no coldness, either. She asks, "What happened to him?" even though a part of her already knows.

"I killed him," he replies without hesitancy. "He tried to kill _me_ one night. He got very upset because I talked back to him. I was sixteen—and was tired of him pushing me around. Especially tired of it. He got out his knife, so I got a kitchen knife, stabbed him in the throat first, beat him to the punch."

Clary listens intently, silently, imagines a young Jace doing this to his father, staring at the crimson as it oozes out onto the floor, dripping from the knife, maybe smearing on Jace's fingers, too.

She thinks he must have felt like she did when she looked down on the stepfather's body (her only very clear memory left): strong, powerful, relieved.

"Did it feel good?" she asks him, curious.

He glances up at her from beneath his lashes again as he keeps soaking her wound. A dark smile spreads across his face. "Yes. That's the moment I realized I was strong. Only the strong survive and all that. Pain destroys some, brings out the inner animal in others. Pain's what defines someone, shapes them."

Clary watches him with knowledge-hungry eyes. "I want to be strong."

Jace flashes a grin and then peels a bandage out, pressing it gently onto her now-stinging cut. He makes sure all the edges are smoothed out over her skin, making it perfect. When it's done, he holds her hand, looking down at it curiously. Then he says, "You already are, Clary. Now, we just make you stronger."

She glows.

Jace simply gathers up the alcohol-drenched rag and bottle. He starts to stand, but Clary's hand goes out, quickly, surprising herself. She grabs his wrist, halting him. He turns his bright eyes towards her, taking her breath and inciting her awe. She says, a little shyly, a little not, "Thank you."

Jace's brows arch, a smirk dancing over his lips. "For what?"

"My hand." She shrugs a bit. "And bringing me here." She motions around them, to the wonderful place. "For helping me."

Jace settles back into a seated position, except, this time, he's much closer to her. Much closer. He sits his things on the floor, and then Clary feels his hands rubbing over her cheeks, over her jaw, down her throat. His thumbs brush at her collarbone. "I'm not as altruistic as you seem to think."

"No?" she asks, whisper-soft, staring at him with wide eyes as he leans in a little.

Jace's thumb goes up, brushes over her bottom lip, and his eyes drop down to her parted mouth as he does so. His other hand is suddenly stroking her knee, sending shivers through her body, into her stomach, where they tingle maddeningly. He leans in, touches his mouth to hers, but doesn't kiss her. She shuts her eyes, sways a bit, wishes for the hot press of his lips, but it never comes. Instead, he simply agrees, "No. I have ulterior motives for helping you, I'm afraid."

Clary's eyes part, opening to find the universe in his golden irises. She doesn't know how to respond, so she stays silent.

And then Jace pulls away, just a little. His head tilts to the side, towards the head of the bed. "You tired?"

Clary's eyes flicker to the window-wall. On the horizon, she sees the hint of dawn. Just the softest pink imaginable, almost drowned out by the still thrumming lights of the city.

She should be tired. She hasn't slept all night. But she's never felt more _aware_. Every fiber of her being hums. Jace's closeness is exciting. She can't pull in a deep breath, stop the clenching of her stomach. Her skin feels electric.

But she says, "A little."

Jace smiles like he sees through her. He nods at the bed. "Lay down, then."

"Are you…are you going to sleep in here, too?" she asks, but she doesn't look away from him like she wants.

"Yes." Jace grins again, a quick flash of his teeth, as he stands up and grabs the bottle of alcohol and the rag. "The couch is uncomfortable."

"Okay."

"Is it?" he inquires, backing up and arching an eyebrow.

Clary nods rapidly.

"All right." Jace smirks and turns his back, heading towards the door. "I'll be back momentarily. Go ahead and lay down. Get some rest. You'll be busy tomorrow." The words thrum like a warning and an exciting promise.

As soon as he's gone, Clary climbs into the big bed, falling out in it. She presses her face into the pillows, takes in the delicious scent of him, lets it wash all over her. She slips under the sheets, finds them so smooth and soft they're almost like silk. She slides her feet around on them, smiling in luxury.

For once, she doesn't have to roll up into a little ball in order to fit, to sleep. She stretches out grandly, but a few moments later, when she's not thinking about it, she does draw back up. Out of habit.

She puts her cheek on the pillow and watches the city as it finally seems to go to sleep. The sun is rising now, casting soft pink light into the room warmly, making her skin flush.

A moment later, Jace returns. But she's already sleepy, more sleepy than she thought she'd be. She only feels the bed dip, only realizes that Jace is lying beside her before she can't help but fall asleep.

In her dreams, she flies, but not through the sky—through the city.

* * *

**So. Someone asked me how I saw Clary...that's a good question. I see her very clearly in my mind but there aren't any pictures that I think capture her in my mind. It aggravates me so! Also, there are certain things, like Jace's bedroom, that I see so CLEARLY and for a visual person such as myself, I want y'all to see it, too. Do I have any artists reading this? I wish I could draw SO BADLY. I would draw everything out for the story. But unfortunately, my drawing skills only go as far as stick figures. But I can draw one mean stick figure family.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, y'all! This chapter is going to go dark. So for all of those people that don't deal with violence and murder well, you might want to jump ship for this chapter. THIS IS A MAJOR WARNING. I don't mean to be rude, but please, PLEASE, don't get on and comment about how you hate the violence and the darkness and the criminal activity and immoral things being done. This is not supposed to portray Clary and Jace in a good light. They are, ultimately, awful. They KILL people. Yes. So, please, keep that in mind. Now, if you want to give me constructive criticism about the writing itself, go for it. I love that kind of thing! I just mean, I don't want people saying they don't like murderers-Jace/Clary. This story is about murderers-Jace/Clary.**

**Anyway, enjoy please! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Clary's eyes open clearly. She inhales once, quickly, shocked to be awake. She didn't know she'd even been asleep.

For a moment, she's confused. She's confused by the evening sun slanting into a room she isn't familiar with, confused by the comfortable firmness of an actual mattress beneath her back, confused by the soft breathing beside her.

Then she blinks, and turns her head, seeing the window-wall and the sunset lighting the city and all its reflective surfaces on fire. And she remembers. Excitedly, almost in fear, she whips her head back quickly, making sure Jace is there, that's he real.

And he is.

He's lying on his back, his arms thrown up over his head, beneath his pillow. His face is turned towards her, the sun shinning on it, flushing his skin a bit. The sheets are almost completely off of him, tangled in his legs. He must be a fitful sleeper, but Clary doesn't remember once being bothered by it.

She takes a moment to admire him, the way his face is alert even in sleep. She knows he must easily be woken, and that makes sense. She likes it, though, because the stepfather never would wake up, nor would her mother. They would always be under the pull of something—alcohol or pills or both—and it always frightened Clary when she touched her mother's arm and she wouldn't stir, not even when Clary pleaded with her.

Clary's eyes dip down from Jace's perfect face to his perfect body. His chest and stomach are so gold, so hard-looking yet the skin looks so soft. She wants to reach out, to touch him, to see if he feels like he looks. So her hand hesitantly lifts and her fingers tremble towards him. As light as a whisper, her fingertips brush his stomach. Before Clary can even think how warm and smooth his skin feels, she's flipping, her back pressing into the mattress, and Jace is towering over her, his right forearm crushed forward against her windpipe.

She can't even gasp.

She simply stares up at him with her wide eyes, unable to cry out in pain, but she wouldn't even if she could. She feels his legs pinning hers down, his other arm above her, his hand closed tightly around her wrists, pressing them captive above her head.

Jace looks down at her with a flash of anger in his eyes until he really sees her, and immediately, his face softens. But he doesn't let go. Instead, he cocks his head, his eyes drifting down from her eyes, grazing down her lips, her throat, to her chest. When his gaze flickers back to hers, his eyes are very dark, dancing with thoughts Clary doesn't understand yet. He asks, calmly, as he leans his head down towards hers, "Are you scared?"

She shakes her head mutely.

He smirks a bit, knowing it's a lie. He _had_ startled her. And he'd frightened her in the most wonderful of ways since he came into her life.

Jace loosens the hold he has on her wrists, but she keeps her hands resting above her on the pillows. He removes his arm from her throat, and she can breathe slightly better. He shifts until one hand is bracing himself by her head, and she sees the muscles in his arm go delightfully taut. The free hand moves down, right against her heart. His head tilts curiously, his eyes predatory. "Your heart is beating fast," he accuses, discounting her word.

The feeling of his hand against her soft, delicate skin is wonderfully strange. Her own hand drifts down, over his. She isn't sure if she wishes to hold it there or remove it.

Jace arches his brows just a little before he slips his hand down the smallest fraction possible, testing her. But she can't protest. She can only look up at him, caught in his gaze, happily mute.

So his hand goes down brazenly then, covering her breast through the flimsy fabric of her nightgown. She can feel the heat of his palm through it, almost as if isn't there. And then he squeezes her flesh suddenly, and a flash of something shoots down through her, in her stomach before dropping lower, between her legs. She gasps softly, and her body shifts, jerks uncomfortably, in surprised pleasure.

The hand she has over his flexes, her nails digging sharply into his skin, but he doesn't seem to mind. He simply looks back into her confused, darkened eyes and smiles, a small half smile—a warning.

"Jace," she says, breathless and nervous and excited. She's ashamed of the way she's letting him touch her and the way he's making her feel. She quickly retracts his dangerous hand. "No."

He sighs once, but doesn't look aggravated. Only expectant. He knew she'd make him stop. He puts his wandering hand on the other side of her head and stares down at her, his eyes a little curious.

Her own eyes are looking down at his chest and below again. She especially likes the lines of his stomach, she thinks. She reaches out instinctually, to feel him, but hesitates.

Jace simply nods at her. "You can touch me," he says, his eyes flickering back and forth between hers, as if searching for something.

Clary's fingers move and brush against his collarbone first. The skin is very soft and thin there. She moves her hand down, tracing over his chest. His muscle _is_ hard, as hard as it looks. And then her fingertips dance lightly down to his stomach, tracing the dips there with a small, fond smile on her lips. Her watching eyes go below her hand, seeing the trail of dark gold hair from his bellybutton into the hem of his pajama pants, so Clary runs her pinky finger down it curiously.

Jace stiffens above her, making a strange, soft hissing sound. Immediately, her eyes flicker up in alarm while his own hand captures her exploring one and places it back firmly on his chest. "You're wandering into dangerous territory, sweetheart," he tells her.

She blushes shyly, smiling just a little.

And there's the shrill sound of a phone ringing, and Jace sighs, rolling off of her, leaving her to feel very cold. She sits up, watching as he saunters out of the room in search of the ringing, and then she glances to the side, to the window-wall. The sun is almost completely hidden in the horizon. It's night again.

Clary smiles.

* * *

She's flying again, on the back of Jace's motorcycle.

He came back into the bedroom only twenty minutes ago, informing her that they must take care of something forthwith. After pulling on her jeans and one of Jace's much-too-big shirts, they were going.

Clary looks around at the sparkling city as they fly, excited by it all anew. She wonders if she'll ever get used to it, to the way her heart squeezes in delight, almost as if there's pressure on her chest whenever she eyes the pure, pulsing _life_ around her, in the streets.

They arrive at their destination quickly, to Clary's slight disappointment.

She glances up at the black, shinny building with the blue lights shining elegantly out of it as she climbs off the bike. "What's here?" she inquires.

"Maia," is Jace's response. He seems muted, as much as he can be. He's already walking brusquely towards the door, as if he needs to get this done quickly.

Clary scrambles after him, into the luxurious building. She gasps slightly, her eyes going wide, taking in the massive lobby with its escalators and glass elevators shooting up and its neon blue lights accenting everything. People buzz around excitedly. Clary's in awe. Again.

Jace isn't so taken with it. He's seen it before, so he's marching towards the escalator, taking it up to the elevators. Clary follows him like a lingering shadow. When they get into the elevator, she watches in wonder as she sees the lobby and its inhabitants grow smaller and smaller the faster they shoot up, until finally, they see nothing.

Then they're on a golden-toned hall with Jace leading the way and pausing outside apartment 1839. He knocks harshly.

A beat passes.

The door creaks open, a dark eye visible through the crack. It narrows immediately before a voice says, subdued but with simmering ferocity, "I'll kill you."

"I just want to talk," Jace replies, shrugging easily. He has his hands stuffed causally, nonthreatening, in his dark slacks pockets. He tilts his head. "May we come in?"

"We?" The voice snaps and the eye moves to Clary, taking her in. "Who is that?"

"Her name's Clary. She's very nice, I assure you. Maia, please let me in. I want to talk to you. I'm not armed," Jace vows and then crosses his heart angelically.

Maia's dark eye seems doubtful and suspicious. "I don't believe you."

"After all these years of knowing each other," Jace sighs, looks rather deflated for a moment, and then, as fast as a bullet, kicks his leg out. Maia isn't inspecting it, and she flies backwards with the door. Jace strolls into the apartment easily, Clary at his elbow a bit pensively.

The apartment is, of course, as luxurious as Jace's, although with many more feminine touches and color. Perhaps it's a bit smaller, a bit more boxed in. Clary doesn't like it as much—there are too may closed in spaces that make her chest tighten.

Maia is pressed back against the wall, her eyes wide and angry, like a trapped animal.

Jace simply reaches behind Clary and shuts the front door before turning his attention fully to Maia, and saying, almost sadly, "You should have just let me in. Now, I'm upset."

"Jace, let me explain," Maia says quickly. Her hands shoot out in front of her, ready for attack, although Jace's hands are back in his pockets and his head is tilted curiously. "I know Valentine told you I needed to be disposed of, but did he tell you why?"

Jace betrays no emotion, and says, politely, "No. But you know the rules, Maia. It's not our job to ask questions when the information isn't offered. I suspect you've been ignoring that rule, as of late."

"I'm in love," Maia blurts. Her dark curls quiver a moment, her lovely caramel skin flushed.

Jace blinks. "How lovely."

"No, Jace. You don't get it—I _love_ Jordan. He's my whole world."

"And he's a civilian, I take it." Jace smiles a bit, ducking his chin down to give her a doubtful, almost playful look.

Maia swallows painfully. "Yes, but…but he's everything to me. You…I'm leaving this life behind me. He knows what I do, but not to the full extent. He doesn't know anything crucial, Jace! He won't hurt the program!"

"So you expect to ride off into the sunset with your new-found lover and expect no repercussions, is that it?" Jace arches his brows, his voice very cool and collected.

Maia is easing backwards, into the living area of her apartment. Splashes of color are everywhere—orange flowers in elegant vases, white, modern couches and chairs sitting on electric blue rugs, multi-colored, hand-painted vases placed perfectly in glass shelves. It's too much at once, making Clary's head hurt with the intensity of it.

"I want to have a life, Jace." Maia's eyes are big, watery, but there's a steel glint beneath them.

Jace sighs loudly, heavily. "Maia, you know you can't ever leave this program. You know you can't fall in love with a civilian outside the program. What are you doing?"

Maia's lip curls back, and she suddenly barks at him, her white teeth flashing, "You hate the rules, Jace! I know you hate being put on a leash! I do, too! And I can't help who I fall in love with!"

Jace rolls his head once, popping his neck. "There's a fine line between pulling at the leash and rearing back and biting the shit out of the person holding it. You've bit the person, I'm afraid."

"There's information," Maia chokes out, backing further into the room. There's a record playing an upbeat rock'n'roll song fuzzily in the corner, filling the air distantly as Maia begins bargaining. "I have information about the program. I know you sniff around, too. But I actually got some concrete stuff. I'll give it all to you. I'll let you have it. If you just let me go."

Jace walks after her, and Clary hangs back, watching the scene unfold like a moving picture. "Maia, you know I can't do that." Jace sounds vaguely apologetic.

"Please." Maia blinks suddenly, and Clary sees a few tears spill over on her cheeks, desperate drops of salty water that drip off her jaw. "Please, don't. I'll do anything. I'm leaving Alicante tonight. With Jordan. We're leaving and we're going to the Outskirts—to live on the ocean. Please, Jace. I'm begging you. You know I would never."

"Yet, here you are." Jace motions around once. Then his eyes narrow a bit. "You know how much I detest begging, too."

Maia closes her eyes, briefly, almost in defeat, but she's not done yet. "I know. I thought it was worth a shot." She backs up even further, until she's pressed back against the cabinet the record player sits atop. She bumps against it, making the music skip once. "Do you love her?" Maia, for the first time, jerks her chin towards Clary, without taking her eyes from Jace and his approach. "She's not in the program."

"She soon will be," Jace says dismissively. "And I didn't hide her from Valentine. He knew about her from the beginning."

"You didn't answer the question," Maia says softly.

"I don't know her all that well, actually." Jace purses his lips. "Thought I'd take her under my wing, though. There's something kind of thrilling about the idea of a protégé."

Maia rolls her eyes a bit half-heartedly. "Yeah."

The music switches over, to a song Clary recognizes—The Flamingos' _I Only Have Eyes for You_. The sweet, haunting melody filters through the air gently, and Clary's heart starts pounding.

Jace and Maia regard each other in dead silence.

"You're going to kill me." Maia says it as a statement.

"I'm weighing my options," Jace replies.

Maia laughs once, a condemned sound. "I know you will. Valentine told you so, so you'll do it. I wish you'd just get it over with." Something about her face is dark now. Clary thinks she might see Maia's arm move behind her, at the cabinet she's pressed against.

"You were begging for you life a moment ago," Jace reminds. His hands are still in his pockets, but he's leaning towards the left, shifting all his weight over, making uneasiness break over Clary's skin.

"Self-preservation." Maia's eyes flash. And then so does a knife. It slices out at Jace in a beautifully deadly arch, and Clary gasps in horror, sure it will slice open his stomach, spilling his guts out, but he dips out of the way, as if in slow motion.

And then his own hand reaches out, slipping into one of the many brightly painted vases Maia has set about. He pulls it back out, exposing another knife, and then he's jabbing it forward in a vicious, deliberate and powerful jerk.

It slams into Maia's stomach, and her eyes fly wide, a strange gasping sound ripped from her lungs. Her hand goes out, knife curled cruelly in her fingers, and Clary is suddenly moving, reaching out and stopping the deadly motion before Maia can slam her own blade into Jace's back. Clary's fingers pry the weapon away, and Maia's hands grip Jace's arms as he twists the knife sharply.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Jace remarks, his eyes never leaving Maia's as he backs her up against the wall. Her fingers are digging into his arms sharply now, knuckles white. Fear is in her eyes. Realization battling with disbelief. She's dying. She knows it, but doesn't want to.

She clings to her killer in desperation, her last string to reality.

Jace tilts his head at her, his eyes searching hers out. He leans in, very close to her flung-open, silently screaming mouth and says, "I _am_ sorry, Maia. But you shouldn't have bit the hand, honey." He pulls back the knife. It slides out of her skin with a sucking sound, and then he rams it back in, angling it upwards. A burst of air shoots from Maia's mouth, along with a river of blood. It splatters on Jace's face, and he just blinks slightly.

Maia's fingers twist into the crisp white dress shirt Jace wears. Her eyebrows pull up, together, in panic. She looks pleading, opens her mouth, but all that comes out is crimson and pain.

"It's okay," Jace says, nodding at her, looking on in somewhat-sympathy. "Just die. Close your eyes, and die."

And so she does.

It's a slower process than Clary would have thought. Even when her eyes go shut for the final time, she jerks and quakes and coughs red a few more times. Her breathing is wet and audible in the room. And then, something in her leaves, and she crumples in on herself. Her fingers lose their grip on Jace. She sags against the wall.

Jace removes the dagger from her, and she falls in a bloody, broken heap to the floor. He stares down at her, a murderous angel. The knife in his hand drips steady, loud thumps of red onto the white rug beneath him. The cuff of his shirt is stained with the blood, his face freckled with it. His eyes are very empty.

Then he seems to wake up and glances over at Clary. He opens his mouth, as if to ask something, but then a frown shadows his face and he presses his lips back together. They stare at each other silently as the record switches to _Rock Around the Clock_ by Billy Haley and the Comets.

Jace swallows and says, disjointedly, "I suppose I should clean this up. It's a lengthy process. I shouldn't have done it here. I do hate she went after me with a knife like that. I wasn't done talking to her yet. Good thing I guessed right about that knife being in that vase. Maia always was sneaky like that."

Clary looks at him, mute. She isn't sure what to say.

He sighs and glances back at Maia's unmoving body. "You're first lesson will be on clean-up, I suppose." He's quiet a moment longer before saying, "No time like the present." Then he turns fully to Clary. He cocks his head at her, his eyes running over her once, and then he's in front of her, staring down at her, engulfing her.

Clary feels his hand touch hers.

"You going to let this go?" he inquires.

In confusion, she looks down to the hand his fingers brush over. She still holds Maia's knife in her fist tightly, so tightly her fingers are dead white. "Oh," Clary says, surprised.

Jace reaches out, delicately, grabs her hand and gently unfolds it, revealing the wicked looking blade fully. He plucks it from her grasp, and then their eyes meet again, Jace's gaze hot and hers wondering. The knife is between their faces suddenly, and Jace, just lightly enough to make Clary very aware of its presence, touches it to her bottom lip. It's cold and sliver-sharp. He runs it down her mouth, over her chin, eases it across her throat, and down over the fabric of the shirt she wears until it rests between her breasts.

Clary stares up at him, quiet, and then he kisses her, a hot, rough press of lips against lips. His hands don't touch her and hers don't touch him. Only their mouths connect them, and for a moment, Clary feels more present than she ever has, not lured away by the siren's song of dreams but here in the moment, a beautiful moment that cannot compare to her imagination in ways.

But Jace is soon pulling back and saying, "Let's get to work," and so that's what they do.

* * *

They stand at the edge of the Alicante River. The breeze off the water is sharp and cold, to the point where Clary is shivering and hugging her arms to her chest. The city shimmers seductively to the right of them, and the river curls lazily around it. It marks the borders of Alicante, a huge circle containing the glimmering sprawl safely. Beyond the river is dark, rolling countryside. There are a few factories, too, in the distance, their gray smoke trailing up towards the navy sky. Some storage facilities have been pushed out to the Outbanks, too—the old crates looking lonely and forgotten.

Clary looks away from the churning waters of the Alicante for a moment to stare at the distant horizon, the hills so black it's almost impossible to discern them from the sky itself. She ponders what else is out there, beyond the city. It seems impossible there is life outside of Alicante.

Then she thinks those thoughts are too great, so she glances back at Jace. He's staring down at the rapid-moving waters, his face calm and unwrinkled. She asks, "Do you regret it?"

He shrugs, as if he's been expecting this question. He never looks away from the river as he says, "I don't think so. It's hard to tell sometimes."

Clary understands this immediately. It _is_ hard, sometimes—hard to feel. Hard to hug Mother, to laugh, to breathe. "Will the body wash up somewhere?"

"The river leads out into the ocean. Shouldn't wash up anywhere," Jace responds. "She'll get to go to the ocean—like she wanted."

There's a soft silence.

And then, because Clary can't contain her curiosity, asks, "Do you kill Jordan now?"

"Now, that depends on many things," Jace muses, and finally lifts his head from the black rush. He purses his lips.

"Depends on what?"

"How much Jordan knows."

"But won't Valentine ask you to kill him?" Clary inquires, tilting her head curiously.

"I'm not entirely sure Valentine _knows_ about Jordan. Maia only assumed the reason Valentine wanted her dead was because Valentine knew about Jordan."

"Why would he want her dead, then?" Clary asks.

Jace looks over at her. His cheeks are flushed with cold, and he smiles, a sneaky and conspiring sort of smile. Then he glances around, and says, "Come on, Clary. We have a lot of things to do."

So Clary follows him back to his motorcycle, and they float back into the city, just as the sun begins to rise.

* * *

**Okay. Thoughts please. Also, I feel the need to make this clear. I love reviews. Literally. LOVE THEM. But if you aren't comfortable reviewing for everyone to see, please PM me directly. I'm starting to get quite a few people just emailing me that way, and I LOVE IT. So don't think I'm just saying that and I'll think you're weird because you're like the ONLY PERSON that actually listened and emailed me. Other people are emailing me, too. Also, please review. I'm on here to make myself a better writer. That's MY DREAM-to be a novelist. So please give me some feedback (those that already have are AMAZING). I'm really enjoying the more in-depth messages I've been getting lately, too, the ones that kind of delve deeper into the things I'm doing-that always tickles me. **

**So, anyway, I'm going to ask a question to get a few people talking with me. If you've read my other stuff, please tell me which version of Jace you like the best. If you haven't read my other stuff (GO READ IT, just kidding...kinda...no, I'm just kidding!), tell me why you dislike/like the Jace in this story. Actually, I want everyone to answer the last question.**

**Anyway, please answer the questions. Don't make me look like a dork, guys. Seriously. Me asking these questions and then no one answering or like two people answering=embarrassing. HELP!**

**AND ONE MORE THING (so sorry), I'm going to respond to all the reviews and emails I've already gotten tomorrow, if y'all don't mind! I'm fixing to pass dead out right now. MUST GET SLEEP! Goodnight/good morning!**


	5. Chapter 5

**WOW! I asked y'all for some reviews, and y'all did not disappoint! So excited to respond to them all so I'm keeping this A/N short and sweet! Enjoy the story! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Isabelle is lying in bed comfortably when she hears the pounding against her door. She glares up at the darkened ceiling, refusing to move just as the person knocking refuses to quit.

The insistence and rising violence of the knocks lead her to believe it can only be one person, and when finally gets out of bed, pulls her silk robe on, and opens the door, she finds she's right.

Jace is scowling slightly at her. "It's about time. We've been standing here ten minutes."

Izzy leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms and arching her dark brows. Her eyes flicker over to the little thing hovering by Jace's elbow. Big emerald eyes peer at her curiously from behind Jace. "I take it this is the girl you've been making me give my precious clothes to."

Jace glances down, almost in surprise, as if he'd forgotten the girl was there, but Izzy knows it's all for show. "Oh, yes. This is Clary. Clary, this is Izzy."

Clary steps out of Jace's shadow just a bit. Izzy eyes the small girl critically but finds she's decently pretty. With her hair combed and fixed, with a little makeup, she'd be quite something—and less child-like in appearance. And if she had some better clothes…Izzy almost has to laugh at the girl as she nearly drowns in a shirt that is so obviously Jace's.

"Nice to meet you," Clary says is a soft, almost raspy voice.

"Yeah," Izzy replies dully before her eyes wander back to Jace. He looks very bright tonight, his golden eyes practically glowing. Izzy can only imagine what he's gotten into. "What was so important that you had to wake me up at six o'clock in the morning?"

"Six o'clock is a normal rising hour, Isabelle," Jace says.

She glares. "Not for me—or you. You wake up at six _in the evening_. But that's beside the point. What do you want?"

Jace smiles angelically, in his strangely polite, almost frightening way. "It's funny that you should ask. There are some things that I need to take care of—things Clary is not yet ready to be a part of. I take it Alec already filled you in about her addition into the program."

"If she can make the cut," Izzy interjects. Her eyes move back to the tiny girl. She looks frail. Izzy wonders how she could possibly do anything. Maybe she'd be a good sniper. She certainly wouldn't be able to overpower anyone.

"Right," Jace allows, tilting his head. "Anyway, I was curious to see if you'd watch her—just for a few hours."

"Babysit?" Izzy demands.

"Look after," Jace corrects. "Just for a bit. I'll be back shortly to collect her, and then I won't ask you to do it again."

"Why can't she just stay in your apartment?" Isabelle inquires sharply. The idea of watching after someone makes her skin crawl. She has things to do today.

"I'm feeling paranoid today," is Jace's response before he shrugs.

Izzy finds this an acceptable excuse. She wouldn't believe it if it were anyone but Jace. He's an anomaly in their line of work—a psycho in a group of killers for hire. Izzy's always rather liked him. He's odd, of course, but he's gorgeous and he's good in bed and he's not one for clingy attachments—although this new little Clary girl might change things. Izzy's very curious to see how _that_ plays out. She doesn't see Jace settling down as much as she doesn't see it for herself.

"Fine," Izzy sniffs. "But I have a job at seven tonight."

"I won't be that long," Jace dismisses quickly.

"I'm leaving her here if you are."

"I'm not." Jace has just a slight irritated undertone in his voice that makes Izzy back off.

"Fine," she allows. As polite as he can seem, she wouldn't want to piss him off. He sometimes frightens her as much as Valentine, although she'd never admit it aloud. She doesn't like the idea of anyone ever knowing she's one of the most fearful people on the planet. "Get in," she orders Clary, opening the door wide enough for the tiny girl to slip past.

Jace is already backing away. "Bye, Clary."

"You owe me," Izzy warns.

Jace just smirks, that smirk that purses up his lips and makes him both young and startlingly attractive. He jerks his chin at her and winks before spinning around and strutting away in his usual style, making Izzy roll her eyes.

She sighs and shuts her apartment door before easing into the living area. Clary stands there, her head twirling around Izzy's apartment, eyeing all the white, glowing flower pendant lamps dangling from the high ceiling, the crème couches with the black and gold accents, the black walls and floors, the glittering decorations Izzy has sprinkled about.

"So." Izzy cocks her hip. "How old are you?"

Clary, a bit hesitantly, turns towards the black-headed girl. "Seventeen."

Izzy eyebrows arch. "I'm surprised Jace went for such a little girl."

At this, the redhead scowls. She looks infinitely less child-like as she does it, but there's still a nagging youth about her. "I'm not a little girl," she protests.

Izzy simply holds up her hands in surrender of a fight she cares nothing about. She sashays towards her kitchen and opens the refrigerator. "Do you know how old Jace is?"

There's a slight pause from behind Izzy. "No," Clary admits.

Izzy waits as her eyes scan over the contents of her icebox. She grabs a bottled water and spins towards Clary, kicking the refrigerator door shut. "Aren't you going to ask?"

"It doesn't matter much to me," Clary murmurs. She's already been distracted by something—a strange, bright-bloomed flower that Alec has managed to keep alive despite Izzy's best efforts to kill it off.

"He's twenty-two," Izzy announces, tossing her hair. "But he can act like a child sometimes. You'll be perfect for each other."

Clary's scowl returns as she glances over at Izzy, but then, the expression fades and curiosity lights in her eyes. "He doesn't seem very childish."

"Not in a lot of ways, but sometimes…" Izzy trails off, pointedly deceptive. She enjoys holding knowledge over people. But Clary doesn't seem to be taking the bait. Despite herself, Izzy gives a bit more information away as she muses, "I don't think he had much of a childhood, so it only makes sense for him to sometimes…lash out, I suppose."

Clary's big green eyes are unnerving as she stares at Izzy. She doesn't seem to blink as much as she needs to. "Jace spoke as if you knew Alec."

"He's my brother," Izzy blurts, shocked at the subject change. Then her eyes narrow. She doesn't think she likes Jace's new girlfriend.

"So you know…"

"Of the program. Yes. I'm in it." Izzy crosses her arms, arches her brows, dares Clary to continue.

But the younger girl is hardly intimidated, which irks Izzy even more. Izzy sees why Jace likes her, though—Clary is just as off-kilter as he is.

"Have you known Jace long?" Clary inquires, drifting over to Izzy's wall of cluttered knick-knacks. Izzy notices she moves vaguely, like smoke.

"I've known him as long as I've been in the program—since I was fifteen. He was sixteen at the time—and was the best Chaos had ever seen, of course. Already." Izzy snorts and rolls her eyes, remembering the teenage Jace was even more insufferably cocky than the present-day one.

"Chaos?" Clary questions, frowning.

"Jace really hasn't told you anything, has he?"

Clary seems to hesitate for a moment, choose her words wisely. "We've only known each other for a short amount of time."

"So I hear. You must have made some kind of impression for Jace to take you home with him. He's never been fond of strays before."

Clary cocks her head and spins to face Izzy again. There's a pucker between the small girl's brows as she regards Izzy. "Why are you so hostile towards me?" she inquires softly.

Izzy's brows arch in surprise. No one but Jace and Alec have ever had the courage to ask her such a question out-right before. Irritation wells up inside Izzy immediately. "I'm hostile towards everyone. Did I hurt your feelings?" she asks nastily.

"No," Clary replies, as if the question had been deserving of a serious answer. "I was just curious."

Izzy stares at the younger girl in shock before a startled burst of laughter breaks free from her chest. _This girl is _weird, Izzy thinks.

"Do you have affections towards Jace?" Clary presses on, walking forward. She stops before the countertop that separates her from Izzy, and she cocks her head. Izzy thinks she might see apprehension in the girl's eyes.

"You think I have a _thing_ for Jace?" Izzy demands and then laughs again, shaking her head at the mere idea. "You _are_ crazy."

Clary looks a bit hurt, and Izzy finally feels victorious.

Izzy adds, a little vindictively, "Jace and I have fucked a few times before, sure."

But then Clary's eyes go so wide and pitiful that Izzy actually feels the smallest stab of regret. Maybe she did go too far. _It's not Clary's fault she's a freak_, Izzy thinks. _And it's always a real bitch to think another girl has been shacking up with the guy you like._ Izzy sighs a bit and then goes on, to soften the blow, "But it never meant anything. It was just…one of those things. You know."

"I don't," Clary whispers, looking down at her feet. Her messy hair falls forward, hiding her face.

Izzy hears _his_ voice in her head suddenly, hears the pitter-patter of rain in the memory. _You really are the most heartless, selfish bitch I've ever had the misfortune of knowing._

She rolls her eyes at herself. She shouldn't care what _he_ thought. It wasn't like she loved him. And she'd been told a lot worse. But _he_ had always been so honest, so _true_. She knew for him to say those words, they were the holy gospel. It had hit her a little harder.

For some reason, she finds herself suddenly trying to be civil. "So…you two haven't, um, had sex?"

"Oh, no," Clary bursts, her head snapping up. Her cheeks are blood red. "I've never."

"Oh." Izzy should have known, she supposed. Clary does seem very young. "Well...you should have sex with Jace. He'll make it good for you—it being your first time and all. He really knows what to do." Izzy winces as soon as the words are out of her mouth. They sounded a lot different in her head—_better_ in her head.

She remembers _him_ again, this time saying, _You never think before you speak_. She'd countered it with a snapped,_ Neither do you_, but _he_ had never been as vicious as she had, even in his sometimes brutal honesty.

Clary doesn't seem offended, though. She just says, a bit reserved, "Um. Thank you."

Izzy sighs and then laughs once, at the strangeness of this girl and this conversation. "Sure. Anytime you want bad advice just come to me. I'm excellent at dolling it out _and_ following it." It's more than she meant to say, but Clary doesn't know this.

Clary simply smiles sweetly. There _is_ something sweet in the girl's face—something kind. It surprises Izzy a little.

And then Clary turns her head to look out the window-wall at the bright morning, and Izzy sees dark, angry bruises on her neck—the long lines of fingers.

"Did Jace do that to you?" Izzy barks sharply, horrified at the thought. Jace can be an asshole sometimes, but she didn't see him beating up a helpless little girl.

Clary looks uncomfortable for the first time since Izzy met her, and it immediately sends warning alarms off in Izzy's mind.

The younger girl pulls at the collar of Jace's shirt, trying in vain to hide the evidence of such violence. "No. Jace didn't hurt me."

"Then who?" Izzy thinks back to her conversation with Alec, but he just had said, in his typical pissed-off Alec way, that Jace had picked up a stray on his last kill.

"The stepfather."

The way Clary says it sends shivers down Izzy's spine. _The_ stepfather. Izzy thinks that she's no psychiatrist but she knows that has to be some sign of disconnect. "Oh. Is that why you left with Jace?"

Clary nods. Her eyes are on the window-wall still, refusing to meet Izzy's.

And then, quietly, suspiciously, Izzy inquires, "What happened to him?"

"I killed him," is Clary's simple, almost proud, response.

And then suddenly, Izzy decides she might not hate the little girl so bad after all.

* * *

Jace scours Maia's apartment—to no avail.

He's agitated and murderous by the time he's turned over every inch of the apartment with not one sign of the information Maia swore she had. He begins to wonder if she hadn't just lied to him in a last-ditch attempt to spare her own life. Maybe Valentine _did_ have her killed for falling in love.

Jace kicks a vase viciously, shattering it against his boot. He runs his fingers through his short hair angrily, pulling at the strands. He feels his heart hammering with his sudden rage. His mind spins, thoughts flashing at him as quickly as headlights on a busy road. The thoughts are all jumbled, memories mixed in—his mother's singing, his father's favorite knife, the roof he would stand on to breathe, his first kill, the blood _everywhere_…it was all over him, under his nails, in his hair, his _soul_.

Jace yanks his hair harshly, and the pain is enough to snap him back to the present. "Breathe," he tells himself and then nods.

He should just go. He'll clean up the vase he broke, and then it will look as if Maia has never been here. Her suitcase is gone, along with some of her favorite things, and it will look like she simply left. There's no evidence of her blood on the floor, smeared down the wall.

Jace nods to himself again. "Leave," he says, and Clary pops into his mind annoyingly. Distractions. So many distractions. They get under his skin because he can't _get rid of them_. Sighing, he walks towards the front door of Maia's apartment.

Just as a knock sounds against it.

Jace freezes for a moment, weighing his options. His thought-process gets crystal clear then, as it always does in the face of something great. He breathes in a sigh of clarity, enjoying it so. He wants to always be in danger, in _something_, so he doesn't get lost in his memories.

"Maia?" comes a quiet voice from behind the door.

Jace's eyes narrow.

"Maia, it's Jordan."

Decision made. Jace walks forward, slings open the door. The boy before him is tall, lanky, broad-shouldered. Tan skin, dark brown hair that hangs in his eyes and seems to Jace would be very annoying. The boy's hazel eyes are wide and sharp. "Who are you?" he asks, slowly. Jordan glances to the right and left, as if he's suddenly lost.

"You must be a friend of Maia's." Jace cocks his head, putting up a mask of friendliness.

Jordan's eyes look a bit suspicious, but his voice is meek and quiet as he says, "I'm her…uh, yeah. I'm a friend."

Jace gives a sharp smile. "Well, I hate to inform you, but she's actually moved away."

"What?" Jordan demands, his voice shooting up a few octaves. And then he winces, as if he's surprised himself by being so loud.

"Yes, I'm afraid she left last night. Very late and sudden. I'm part of the staff here—trying to clean everything out. I take it you didn't expect her departure," Jace drawls.

Jordan's eyebrows are pulling together, his eyes darting frantically at his feet, as if trying to make sense of it. "No…no…" The boy's head snaps up for a moment, and he meets Jace's eyes again. "I just can't believe she left."

"Perhaps she had to leave because of her occupation," Jace fishes, rather transparently, but he doesn't care.

"Um." Jordan's eyes narrow just a fraction, but he doesn't seem to have it in him to be confrontational. He simply says, "I don't really know what she does. I don't think she has to travel that much for it, though. Did she say where she was going?"

"To the ocean, I believe," Jace replies, tilting his head.

A flash of pain shoots across Jordan's face before he quickly composes himself and asks, hesitantly, "Who did you say you were again?"

Jace stares at him for a time, drawing out the pause much too long to be considered normal. Then he says, "I didn't."

Jordan stares back, a bit helpless. Different emotions dart across his face at a rapid speed, like pages of a book being flipped. He can't seem to decide on just one. And then, with dawning realization, Jordan dashes to the right.

But Jace is expecting it—saw it coming from miles away. So he reaches out and grabs the back of the boy's jacket before he can get two feet away. Jace's arm flies around, constricting over Jordan's throat, cutting off his windpipe to keep him from screaming, and Jace drags him back into the apartment, managing to kick the door shut solidly behind them.

Jordan struggles but with all the results of a kitten batting its paws. Jace ends up spinning and kneeing him sharply in the gut. Then he shoves the boy back against the wall hard enough to crack his head. Jordan slides to the floor in a head, groaning and disoriented from the hit, breathless from the knee.

"You shouldn't have tried to run," Jace sighs, shaking his head. He draws out his gun and slowly puts the silencer on it, making sure Jordan can see, and then, easily, he points the weapon at the dark headed boy's head.

Immediately, Jordan presses back against the wall, as if he can escape. His long brown hands go up. "Dude, whoa! What are you doing?"

"I'm preparing to kill you. _Dude_." Jace rolls his eyes. "Unless, however, you tell me the things I need know."

"What the hell?" Jordan cries. "I don't know anything! I'm just here for my girlfriend!"

"So she's your girlfriend now. Earlier, you said she was your _friend_."

"Only because I didn't know who you were and Maia is so weird about relationship titles," Jordan rushes out.

"Do you know what Maia does?" Jace asks, slowly and carefully.

"No." Jordan shakes his head quickly, trembling against his curled up place by the wall. "She wouldn't tell me."

"Then why'd you run from me?" Jace inquires, arching his brows.

Jordan's bottom lips quivers and he shuts his eyes briefly, caught. "Listen, man. I knew she was into some bad shit, okay? She wouldn't ever tell me—trying to protect me—but I knew she was doing something. I just assumed you were part of it."

"Those are some very good instincts you have. _Suspiciously_ good." Jace lets the unsaid threat hover in the air delightfully. He feels his heart beating excitedly in his chest, like hummingbird wings fluttering against his ribcage.

"Well, I always have been a little too perceptive for my own good," Jordan mutters meekly. His eyes are glassy with terror.

"How'd you meet Maia?"

"She was a childhood friend. We were neighbors—in the slums of the Outercity. There was this Dark City Boss that ruled over our block, and he wound up killing Maia's parents when she was like sixteen. She disappeared after that, but three months ago, she came back. That Boss was acting up again, causing a lot of trouble—really getting away with anything he wanted. More so than usual. So she came investigating it. Something about it made her suspicious. So we met up again while she was revisiting her old apartment. I still lived right next to it."

"And an old flame was rekindled, was it?" Jace sighs sweetly.

Jordan glares up at him through his watery eyes. Hate brims in the hazel depths.

"And now look at where that has gotten you. Love is a bitch. I highly recommend _against_ it." Jace tilts his gun back and forth, still pointing it at Jordan's head.

"So did Maia tell you where she'd been the last couple of years?"

Jordan doesn't answer. He simply stares up at Jace defiantly, despite the quiver in his face.

"It would benefit you to answer me," Jace murmurs, letting a bit of his inner darkness bleed out into his tone.

"You're just gonna kill me anyway," Jordan snaps in a quick burst of air, and then he sucks in his big, shaky gasp, his body twitching.

"Yeah," Jace agrees, nodding. He looks down at Jordan with something like sympathy. "But now it's matter of time. If you tell me what I want, I'll kill you fast. You won't even feel it. But if you don't…well, I have a lot of time on my hand. And I must admit I do enjoy torture. It's a guilty pleasure of mine—and ice cream, too."

"Dude, you're sick," Jordan groans, his face twisting.

"I wouldn't be so quick to insult the man holding the gun." Jace holds the weapon between them as if Jordan has forgotten about it. "Now. Tell me where Maia said she'd been the last couple of years."

Jordan swallows convulsively, as if trying to keep something down. "She just said she'd been working for the Council! That's all! I kind of figured after a while that she was some sort of killer or something. I found a lot of weapons around her place. And she had all these scars. And in the morning, if I touched her, she'd go all crazy on me and try to choke me to death."

Jace nods a few times. "Well, those instincts proved right again, Jordan."

Jordan's face tightens, his eyes welling up. He obviously didn't want this to be the case, but Jace is unsympathetic.

"Now, Jordan, this is very important," Jace announces. "You need to tell me the name of this Boss."

"Hodge," Jordan croaks, already spiraling into grief. His eyes are distant and pained. Tears are wet and shinny on his cheeks.

"Hodge." Jace purses his lips. "Why was Maia so suspicious of him?"

"She said something about he was getting away with too much—like I said. She said that he should have been getting slaps on the wrist at the very least by the local police. But his gang was running through the streets, killing anyone they wanted without so much as a blink from the cops."

Jace frowns, tilts his head curiously back and forth and then cracks his neck. "Is there anything else you feel is important that you should say?"

Jordan blinks three times, harshly, and then brings his eyes up to Jace's in personal misery. He rasps, "Did you kill her?"

Jace doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

Jordan's face crumples, and where he'd been crying before, he begins sobbing now, great, breathless hiccups that are pathetic in Jace's eyes. "Oh, God," Jordan cries out, hiding his face and his shoulders shake violently as he curls in on himself.

"I'm going to do you a favor, Jordan," Jace says. "But you have to look at me, first."

With some effort, Jordan drags his trembling hands away from his face and looks up at Jace with his grief-stricken face wet with tears and snot.

Jace offers his most sympathetic smile, though it feels strange on his face. "Do you believe in life after death, Jordan?"

Jordan swipes at his face pitifully. "In theory," he manages to choke.

"Well, then. _In theory_, you will soon be reunited with your long-lost love." Jace raises the gun and shoots him in the head, one soft-sounding bullet right between his eyes before the boy can get out another sob. Jordan's blood splatters back onto the wall inconveniently, his eyes flung open wide and dead, staring at Jace unblinkingly.

Then Jace curses.

Because he'll have to clean the apartment up once more in less than twenty-four hours.

* * *

**I'm a little freaked out to admit that I enjoy writing these heartless characters. Do y'all think that's a reflection on me? I really hope not. I'm scared now. This is why I don't usually write dark stuff. **


	6. Chapter 6

**This chapter is too short. Dang it! It messes everything up because my other chapters have been closer in length, and then here is this one destroying everything. But we're gonna be skipping in time a little, and it didn't make sense to do that in this chapter and then have this chapter go on TOO long. Anyway, sorry, my fellow OCD peers. **

**Also. I'm very sad. I've gotten a couple responses in the last few days that have expressed similar things. Some people are saying they have been afraid to review or message me. WHAT? What is happening? Why is this so? I'm really not evil. I promise. I like hearing from others. Please, if you're nervous or on the rocks about reviewing/messaging, don't worry so much about it! I'm not going to hurt you, I swear! I love all my readers. Cross my heart. Please don't be intimidated by me. Because I'm pretty sure I'm the least intimidating person on the face of this planet. I just don't want there to be this wall between the readers and myself. I like being able to talk with people! **

**Anyway, long rant over. Enjoy please! (:**

**Oh. And before you do anything else. RIGHT NOW, and I MEAN RIGHT NOW, drop everything. Open a second window or tab on your browser. And go to youtube. Look up _Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes_ by the Thievery Corporation and hit play. Listen to it as you read the second half of this story (where the line break is). That's what I listened to while writing this. Of course, if you're the type person that gets distracted/annoyed by music then listen to it later. But enjoy! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

Jace goes straight to his apartment. It's seven thirty in the evening now after he's been forced to clean the apartment yet again and dispose of Jordan's body. It's all such a tiring, boring, long process.

He knows Izzy is probably furious with him, but he can't bring himself to care. He just hopes Clary is still in tact after spending a day with the other girl. Izzy can be cruel sometimes, a trait Jace doesn't mind. He isn't sure if Clary is so forgiving, however. Although he has no doubts Clary can hold her own if necessary.

He unlocks his door and walks in. It's night again, but unlike the dark apartment he's used to coming home to, some of the lamps are on, casting golden shade over the floors and walls. Beethoven is filling the air, coming from his record player, immediately making his eyes narrow in suspicion.

But then he walks further into the apartment, in the carnivorous main room, and sees Clary sitting like a little girl with her legs crossed on the floor, right in front of the record machine, her chin resting on the edge of her hand.

"Clary."

Jace watches in delight as she jumps, startled. And then she quickly gets to her feet and faces him. His amusement is wiped away when he sees what she's wearing. His eyes start at her soft looking, elegantly piled up red hair, down to her face, which has been accented with just the slightest bit of dark black eye makeup and pale lipstick, and then his gaze dips further, to her chest, which is exposed more so than usual by a tight little corset-like dress. The dress only comes down to the very tops of her thighs, hugging her so tightly that he can see the lovely, wide flare of her hips and each one of her abundant curves. She's wearing one of his white button-down shirts over it, with it hanging open, and it's longer than the dress itself.

Clary hesitates for a second before drifting over to him, padding softly in her bare feet. She stops before him, just a few inches away, and tilts her head up to look at him. She doesn't say hello, and neither does he. They just stare at each other for a moment.

And then, a bit shyly, Clary looks down at herself and whispers, "Isabelle let me borrow it. She said it was a shirt on her. She said you'd probably like it. But I had to put this shirt on over it because I got cold." She picks at the long sleeve of the shirt, and then says, "Here," before shrugging out of it. The shirt pools at her feet and leaves her slender, pale arms and shoulders exposed to his roaming eyes. There are only thin little black straps holding the dress up, easily snapped, he thinks.

The chatter in Jace's mind quiets a bit, filled with images of Clary instead the random memories he gets used to. He tilts his head and imagines her without the dress, bare beneath him, bent over for him, in a myriad of sexual positions, compelling him to reach forward and grab her hips suddenly. She gasps softly as he lifts her easily, sitting her on the edge of the counter. Her small hands grab at the tops of his arms unsteadily, and her eyes are big and curious as she stares up at him.

He leans down, his lips stopping just shy from hers. He enjoys the way she shivers, the way her mouth opens and her sweet breath brushes over his lips. His hands go to her knees, parting them, and he steps between them as his fingers skim up her silken skin, up her thighs, pushing up the slinky little dress as they go.

Clary's own fingers are digging into the muscle of his arms, and her eyes close suddenly, a small pucker forming between her brows as if she's concentrating very hard on something, and Jace smirks before kissing her, a hot and quick press of his lips against hers before he moves his mouth down, over her chin and below, to trace her throat. He kisses the hollow between her collarbones and then moves to the side, dragging his lips over her shoulders.

His hands creep up and jerk the straps of her dress down roughly, making her gasp again. Her hands flex around his arms, almost as if to stop him, but she doesn't say anything.

His mouth opens against the hammering pulse in her neck, and he sucks on her sweet skin gently at first but then he feels her hands going into his hair, pulling at the short strands, and it makes him get rough with her. He can't control it. The need to possess her is pulsing through his entire body, making his fingers tremble. He wants to grab her, hold her, crush her. He wants to bite her, to mark her.

And she simply holds his hair, breathing out these soft little sounds that make him frantic, almost. So he revels in it, in the way his heart pounds and the way his body yearns. The way she's so soft and pliant against him. He likes the build-up the best, the way his body is almost in pain, the way everything is sharpened and oh-so clear.

And then his phone rings. He thinks about ignoring it. Clary is breathing so heavily, and her fingers are digging into his skull so roughly that he thinks maybe she'll let him do whatever he wishes to her. But the phone keeps going, and he can't let it _ring_. The shrill sound makes his skull explode. It makes his skin crawl and itch until he can't stand it and pulls away from Clary sharply, muttering a furious curse.

She sags slightly against the counter, her arms behind her, her lips swollen and her hair falling in places, and her dress hiked up. Jace only allows himself a fraction of a second to drink her in before turning and yanking his phone out of his pocket.

"What?" he snaps.

"Your funds have been transferred," comes Alec's voice.

"It was supposed to be transferred two days ago," Jace grumps.

"Well, I'm sorry Valentine promised you that. He doesn't do his accounting, though. _I_ do. It was impossible to get the funds until now." Alec's irritated tone buzzes angrily over the line.

"Fine." Jace snaps the phone shut finally and shoves it back into his pocket. He glances over at Clary as she hastily pulls up the straps of her dress and closes her legs together tightly. Obviously, his window of opportunity has vanished. He sighs heavily and says, "Care to take a walk with me?"

Clary perks up immediately. "Okay," she replies, so he finds her a coat she can bundle up in and they leave.

* * *

"You give your money away?" Clary inquires curiously, peering over at Jace.

He's looking down from his spot on the roof, watching the families below, in the slums, marvel over their new-found wealth. At first, the people look fearful—how could money just appear with no strings attached? But now that they see it is a true gift, they are exuberant. The children are woken from their beds, and the shouts and hollers of joy fill the apartment complex. The sounds are at odds with the grim surroundings, the darkness of the buildings, the steam rising from the sewers.

Jace looks down without emotion and then glances over at Clary. "Do you believe in God?" he asks.

Clary blinks in surprise, but says, "Yes. Do you?"

"Of course," he remarks, as if it's obvious. He looks back down at the families running up and down the rickety fire escapes, trading stories of what bills they'll pay with their riches. "I'm a sinner, Clary. I kill people, after all. And I've never once felt bad about it. Sometimes…sometimes I have these moments of startling clarity—and I realize that I'm _supposed_ to feel guilt. But even though I know I'm supposed to feel bad, I don't. Giving this money to these people…it's a way to atone for the mistakes I've made. Maybe God will forgive me for all the lives I've taken." Jace's tone is contemplative but hardly fearful or sorrowful. Just experimental. "Maybe he won't. Either way, this is my way of asking for forgiveness. It's the only way I know how."

Clary watches him watch the families. His hair is messy now, getting beat around in the wind being so high up affords. The Outercity sprawls around them, steaming and dark and destitute. But Jace is bright and clean. His button down shirt is pressed, the sleeves rolled up, his thin black tie straight but a bit pulled out. His hair is gold, and so are his eyes. He's an angel.

"Why were you so late today?" Clary asks him.

"I ran into Maia's boyfriend. I had to kill him."

"Oh."

"Aren't you the smallest bit frightened of me?" Jace inquires, a pucker forming between his brows as he turns his head to look at her.

Clary doesn't have to hesitate. She simply says, "No."

"Why?"

"The same way you can't feel grief, I suppose." Clary reaches out, touches the taut muscles of his forearm as he leans forward on the roof's ledge. "I like you."

Jace's lips curl up on one side.

"You're like me," Clary whispers, staring down at her tracing fingers as they dance up his arm. Hazy memories of her daddy leaving her filter into her mind. She remembers her mother running him off. She remembers her mother bringing the stepfather in for the first time. And then, as clear as a picture, she sees Jace handing her the gun. She sees the stepfather's blood splattering backwards from his skull beautifully, in slow motion and she replays the image over and over again until she smiles slightly.

Suddenly, her arms go forward and wrap tightly around Jace. His arms jerk up, away from her, hovering above her skin. He seems to stiffen and relax at the same time in her hold. She presses her nose into his shirt, drinking in his scent. She feels her heart pound at the closeness. The comfort she received from her mother's hugs is gone in this hug. There's only excitement of possibilities in this one. "Don't leave me," Clary murmurs.

Jace's hand rests against her head for a moment before stroking her hair. His other hand comes down and touches against the small of her back, curling her against him more firmly. She feels every press of his body against hers. He's hard, and she's soft. She wonders what it would be like to hug like this without so many layers of cloth between them. It makes her feel funny to think that way.

"Please don't leave me," Clary says, squeezing her eyes shut. "I'll do whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" Jace's voice is dark and whispered against the crown of her head.

She pulls away from him just enough that she can tilt her head back and look up, meet his burning eyes with hers. "Whatever you want," she promises, her stomach fluttering with the implications of her vow.

Jace smiles slightly, and his hand smoothes from her hair, over her cheek, down her neck and lower still. His fingers dip beneath the coat he has her in, and she gasps when she feels how utterly cold his hand is against her warm skin. The contrast makes her dizzy. His hand eases lower, pushing down the neckline of her dress as low as possible, and then he squeezes her breast gently, his icy fingers flexing into her soft flesh.

Immediately, her back arches towards him, her stomach on fire, her gasp stuttered as she places her hands on his chest to steady herself. "Jace," she breathes, her head falling back slowly, her eyes seeing nothing but navy sky and the cool cloud of her breathing.

"Teach me," she suddenly says, lifting her head again and meeting his eyes excitedly. She moves her hands up, rests them against his neck. "Teach me everything I need to know to be like you. I want to make the cut—like Izzy said I needed to."

Jace removes his hand from inside her coat and rests it on her cheek, bringing up his other hand to mirror the movement on the other side. His fingers engulf her, and his eyes pierce down, a small smile flittering over his mouth. "You want to learn how to fight?"

"Yes," Clary says.

"And to kill?"

"Yes."

"And you'll kill another—one that's never done any wrong to you? Are you prepared to do that?" Jace asks her, tilting his head.

"Of course," Clary vows. "I want to."

"You _want_ to?" Jace inquires, that smirk pursing his lips. He's leaning down towards her, so that she can taste his breath against her lips.

"I do," Clary tells him.

"You like the power?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel that bloodlust inside you, Clary?" Jace whispers, his eyes drifting over to his right hand as his fingers trace the line of her cheekbone. "Is it urging you to kill someone again? To take a life? To be in control of _everything_?"

Clary shakes. "Yes."

Jace inclines his head, and his hot tongue runs up her neck, making her grab his hair and hold him to her as she trembles for him. His lips are at her ear. He tells her, almost silently, "I want you."

Clary frowns a bit, confused. "You already have me," she says, surprised, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world—and it is, to her. He's already got his hooks in deep, and she gladly has allowed this. She only wants her own hooks in, as well.

Jace pulls back from her, holding her head. His thumb runs over her bottom lip as he stares down at her, a bright, burning light in his sleepy eyes. "Not yet," he says, tilting his head.

Clary stares up at him, blinded by him. She asks, "What do we do now?"

Jace seems to debate this for a moment before he replies, "We find out what Maia's been up to. What secrets she's been keeping." Jace brushes Clary's hair back from her face and looks down at her curiously. "But now, I'm going to take you home. And teach you."

Clary's eyebrows arch. Her mind is fractured in light. She feels weightless suddenly, disconnected and connected. Floating and yet grounded by Jace's hands. She's never felt such a light feeling in her chest, like wings beating, lifting her. She whispers, "What are you going to teach me?"

Jace smiles, and Clary sees nothing but golden light. He tilts down, his face so close to hers, his lips kissing her his reply. "_Everything_," he answers.

* * *

**Well, Clary has fallen off the deep end.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Happy late Thanksgiving, everyone! Hope all of y'all had a great day! I, personally, had a great time, getting to see my family and all, and absolutely stuffing myself with food. **

**But on to the story, this chapter is a while after Chapter 6. Weeks or months, I'm not sure. Probably like a month later. But anyway, not much in the way of plot occurs in this chapter, but there is a good bit of Clary/Jace time. I will most likely post another chapter again later tonight because I can't end on an odd number.**

**Also, those of you who are asking for a Half Truths update, I've decided to discontinue the story. JUST KIDDING (: I should update that one tonight or tomorrow. So stick around! **

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Later.**

Boss Carter sits at her desk, contemplating her strategies for getting out this massive…mess. There's no better term for it. She's messed with the wrong people. She's overestimated her power and the power of those over her.

Her bright red nails tap on her desk sharply, her mind whirling. Each outcome looks bleak, but Eliza Carter was born into the grimmest of lives and made something for herself. At this point in time, she's excellent at slipping out of even the tightest spots.

Then her office door slams open. Etheridge looks at her with huge, almost frightened eyes. Seeing a man of her personal bodyguard's stature looking afraid immediately sends warning bells off in Carter's mind. She stands swiftly, elegantly even in fear, and demands, "What is it?"

"I need to get you out of here. The compound has been—"

And then hot, sticky warmth splatters onto Carter's face, making her cry out in shock along with the sound of soft echo from a bullet—the bullet that has just sliced through Etheridge's skull.

Carter stares at him, the moment suspended before her, and she sees the angry red, jagged hole between Etheridge's flung-open eyes. His lips part, as if to speak, and then he realizes he's dead and collapses to the floor.

Carter only hesitates a fraction of a second before going towards the hidden compartment in her desk, after her best gun, but there's a firm "tsk, tsk" sound that halts her. Slowly, she raises her eyes up to the boy standing in her doorway, neatly sidestepping Etheridge's body as if the massive man lying dead on the floor is nothing but a pile of papers to avoid.

"Get away from the desk," the boy says, with a strange sort of politeness, a gun in his hand. Carter notices that he's beautiful—short, shaggy golden hair sticking up in strange directions, golden skin, golden eyes. He even wears a nice, crisp white button down with a tie around his neck. But the way his body seems to vibrate, the way his eyes glow with rising fervor, Carter knows he is no normal, good-looking boy.

"Who the hell are you?" she demands of him. She keeps her face smooth, not betraying the little-girl terror she feels inside her. The boy's gun is hanging rather limply in his hand, but he holds it with such confidence. She knows he's familiar with the weapon.

"I really don't like repeating myself," the boy almost sings, giving her a sweet smile that betrays almost-dimples in his cheeks. Then his face falls flat and he jerks the gun to the left. "Away from the desk, ma'am."

Carter swallows against the thorns in her throat. Very easily, she moves to the left, her eyes wide and careful, trained solely on the boy. "If you're going to kill me, do it," she tells him, although she thinks maybe he won't kill her after all. If he wanted to, she'd already be dead like Etheridge.

She tries to tell herself these things, but the hot-cold quiver of fear in her stomach still makes her want to vomit. She's reminded of when she was little, and she was afraid of her mother, who would often inject her body with so many toxins she'd think she was on another planet. And while her mother was screaming and crying and trying to cut the "bugs" out of her skin, Carter would get so terrified she would retch. It was the most out-of-control feeling in the world, to have her body purging like that. She never wanted to feel that again—yet here she is.

"I want to ask a few questions first. If that's all right." The boy offers a manic, lopsided smile.

Carter bites back her knee-jerk response of "fuck you." That's the old her—the teenage her that lived in the slums. She's refined, now.

"Do you know why you're on the shit list of the Council?" the boy inquires, moving towards Carter's desk.

"That's information you'll have to find for yourself. I'm not likely to tell you anything. Gun-wielding is hardly persuasive to me."

The boy arches his brows, cocks his head. The motion is strangely predatory. "Well, I suppose I'll have to find another way. You'll find me a master of persuasion. Not to toot my own horn." He gives a charismatic grin that almost makes him appear as though he's winking.

Carter just stares at him with her age-old poker face.

The boy glances around her desk, rummages through a few papers. He's got the gun pointed up at her as he does so, and something tells Carter that if she moves, even with his eyes not directly on her, he'll shoot and kill her in one shot.

"Jace?"

Carter's head snaps over to the doorway, along with the boy's.

A young girl stands there, wearing a rumpled, baggy dress that comes to mid-calf on her pale, slim legs. The girl's red hair is messy, pulled from its up-do violently in places. Her hands are interlaced primly in front of her.

Carter is a little amazed at the girl, at the contradictions of her. She's small but powerful seeming. Her voice is soft but carries weight. Her eyes are wide and innocent yet dark and jaded.

"Yes, sweetheart?" the boy—Jace—inquires. Carter notices the way he looks at her—hungry but also fiercely protective. It's an intimate look he gives her, even without meaning to be.

"There are more coming," the girl says gently. Carter, ever analytical, observes the way the girl looks back at Jace—not as brazen and lustily but with a bit of subdued longing, of hinted desire. And innocence, still.

"Did you take care of the others without incident?" Jace inquires, looking back down at the papers strewn over Carter's desk.

Carter's mind is meanwhile working. Figuring. Problem solving. Her fear makes her mind work faster, better. Clearer. Thoughts spin in her head, and all the while, she listens carefully to the girl's response.

"I did," she says, almost excitedly, as if ready for Jace's praise.

Which he gives her immediately. "That's wonderful."

"One of them hurt my wrist," the girl adds, looking down at her thin little arm. She rotates her wrist a bit. "So I broke his—before I broke his neck."

Carter's blood is cold, but her skin is hot. Her fingers shake. She's moving backwards, trying to look as terrified as possible, as if she's trying to get away from them. But that's not it at all.

"Good girl." Jace raises his head a bit to give her a sly smile.

She gives a smile back, one that wrinkles her nose the smallest amount. And then her clear green eyes snap over to Carter, making the older woman freeze. The girl's head tilts. "Don't move, please."

Carter stares back at the girl, trapped by the oddity that is the girl's gaze. "I…who are you two?"

"Don't answer her, Clary," Jace says, still shuffling through papers.

"Jace," Clary almost whines. "They'll be here soon."

"Dammit," Jace mutters to himself before taking a deep breath and then shoving a few of the papers into the waistband of his pants. "All right. Our Boss friend here has been no help. Nor do I see her being any help in the foreseeable future."

"I thought you were going to persuade me," Carter says quickly, almost desperately. Her back presses into the cool metal of her filing cabinets. Her fingers search.

Jace sighs heavily. "Unfortunately, I don't have the time. Don't take it personally. I'm sure you would have been quite fun to dissect."

Carter's fingers brush the cool metal of her gun hidden in the cabinet. She grabs it, and even though she senses Jace and Clary both already know of her plan, she still gets the weapon raised and pointed at Clary's head without Jace's retaliation. "I'll kill her," Carter says coolly, staring at Jace but aiming at the small girl.

Jace's eyebrows arch in a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "You really think I care?"

Carter licks her lips, her mind working. _Bluffing_, her inner voice warns. _He's bluffing_. "Yeah, actually. I do think you care."

"That's where you're wrong, Miss Eliza Jane Carter." Jace shrugs easily and slowly prowls over to the young girl, who is staring down Carter's weapon without any fear in her huge green eyes. Jace wraps his arm around Clary, pulling her close to his body. She looks very small and pale next to him. Jace's gun lifts and presses smoothly into Clary's temple. Carter watches as the younger girl trembles, but not seemingly with fear.

"I'll kill her myself," Jace whispers, a small, gleeful smile dancing subtly on his lips as he tilts his face, resting his cheek on the top of Clary's head. "Blow her pretty little brains out." Jace's eyes flicker down to the crown of her hair, almost in curiosity, as if imagining what the sight would be like—the blood and chunks splattering everywhere, just like Etheridge's.

Clary's hand comes up and rests on Jace's, the one he has grasping her upper arm. She seems to lean back into him, and her eyes drift shut.

Carter is at a loss. So she cocks the gun.

The sound just barely begins before the louder sound of gunfire is echoing through the room. Carter doesn't even see Jace's arm straighten. She doesn't see—

She's dead before she realizes it.

* * *

Clary tilts her head, weighs the knife in her palm carefully. She squints at the target down the long stretch of the training room. It's quiet, and she can focus completely. There are no windows in this room, tucked secretively behind the bookshelves in the living area—much to Jace's dismay. He'd much rather have this room with its padded walls and floors and targets and vaults of weapons out in the open, for anyone to see. But this room was already built to be hidden when Jace was moved into the apartment.

He's been complaining about it ever since they began training in here.

Clary smiles just a bit before pulling her arm back and letting the knife fly. It summersaults elegantly through the air exactly eight times before the tip slams into the target, the handle vibrating with the impact. Clary frowns at her accuracy. The knife landed closer to the edge of the target than the center.

Tirelessly, she dances to the target and yanks the knife free before returning back to her original place. She begins measuring the distance again. Weighs the blade again, like Jace taught her. She tries to straighten into the right posture.

And then, she peeps over her shoulder and sees Jace leaning against the doorway, only wearing his black pajama bottoms. His hair is messy with sleep as he crosses his arms and regards her. "Having fun?" he inquires.

She smiles a little shyly. "Yes."

Detaching himself from the doorframe, he ambles over to her, comes to stand behind her. She feels his fingers brush the sides of her neck as he pulls her hair back gently. "You did good last night," Jace tells her, his words whisper into the crown of her head.

Clary shivers, her body still unable to get used to his presence. "Thank you."

Jace's fingers dance teasingly down to her shoulders, playing with the thin straps of her nightgown. She's quickly realized he likes _playing_—playing in the boundaries she's set for him. He pushes at the limits constantly, in a subtle way that leaves her very confused, which she suspects is his intention. He gets frustrated sometimes with her modesty, but she also thinks he likes the challenge of her morality. She thinks he likes the chase, the trial of corrupting her, of changing her mind.

And she _knows_ she likes his attempts.

"Couldn't sleep?" Jace murmurs against her temple as his hands slip down, his palms covering her collarbones, his fingers just barely resting against the tops of her breasts.

Clary turns carefully in his hold, removing his hands in the process. She looks up at him, arching her brows demurely. "No. I have trouble sleeping after I've killed someone."

Jace is smirking slightly, his eyes dark and sleepy. He watches as his fingers come up to trace the sides of Clary's face gently. "I used to, too. It gets better."

"Why do you think it's so?" Clary inquires, watching as her own hand skims down his warm, hard chest. His skin is delicious feeling.

"I'm not very sure. I always feel so alive, so _awake_ when I've killed someone. It's the best kind of high there is. Maybe, subconsciously, we don't want to loose that by going to sleep. Because when you wake up, it's gone again." Jace leans down, as if to kiss Clary, and she takes in a quick, excited breath—but he stops just shy of her lips. She feels his fingers touching her other hand, the one with the knife. "May I see this?"

She quickly released her hold on it, and he plucks it out of her grasp. He holds it between them, eyeing the weapon curiously before his eyes flicker up to hers, mischievous and sinful. "Do you like knives?"

She nods. "I want to be good with them."

Jace debates this and then, carefully, presses the tip of the glass-sharp blade to her lips. She feels the sting of pain and cold, and her heart pounds, her mind blurry. Jace flashes a half-cocked grin before dragging the knife down her chin, below to her throat, easing the sharpest point down her soft skin. He doesn't draw blood, but Clary is very aware of it, of the cold steel contrasting with the raging heat inside her.

The knife dips lower, down between her collarbones and then even further. Jace watches the progress of the blade with fascination as it slides dangerously between her breasts. She can feel the cold press of the metal through the thin nightgown she wears as if it isn't even there, and Clary trembles delicately.

Jace's hungry eyes catch the movement, and she's suddenly being slammed back against one of the padded walls, the knife digging gently into her throat. Jace presses into her roughly, stealing her breath away as she looks up at him in wonder. His face is agitated and excited and amused and intent all at once.

She can't move much, only her left arm, so she reaches out and strokes his side slowly as she stares up at him with her wide eyes.

And then the knife is clattering away, and Jace's hands are engulfing her face, his lips attacking hers with an intensity and violence that she savors. He always kisses her like he's attempting to devour her, and she kisses him back with equal fervor now, no longer held back by her inexperience.

With kissing, she's gotten plenty of experience in the last few weeks with Jace.

Suddenly, he's lifting her and tossing her to the softly padded floor. She gasps, and he's on top of her before she can squirm away, her wrists trapped and flung up above her head by his strong hands. His knees rest on either side of her hips, and he stares down at her with a dangerous smirk. He leans in, until his lips touch hers, and he says, "Get out of it."

Clary smiles and tilts her head up until they're kissing again, softly, teasingly, and she feels the grip on her wrists slacken just a bit. That's all she needs. She snatches her arms free and quickly flips onto her stomach, slides out from under him, begins crawling away, giggling despite herself.

And then Jace catches her ankle, hauling her back, making her squeal, and her nightgown hikes up as she's slid across the floor, exposing her underwear. She feels Jace's hand skim up the back of her leg, her thigh, until his palm is smoothing over her backside so slowly that she rolls her eyes a bit and kicks blindly at him.

And they roll around on the ground like this for a few more minutes. Jace, of course, is better at this kind of thing. But he's taught her a good bit, and she's a fast learner. She's surprised herself at how easily she's taken to combat and weaponry. Perhaps Jace is just a good teacher, though he does spend most of their lessons trying to grope her.

"I know I didn't teach you to fight so dirty," Jace says playfully in her ear as he has her on her stomach yet again, her arms pinned back helplessly.

Clary just giggles again, breathless.

The sound of Jace's phone cuts through the air, making him groan in agitation behind her. "I'm not picking it up," he says, pressing his nose into her neck, through the mess of her hair.

"You have to," Clary reminds sweetly.

Jace sighs loudly. "I know. I just don't want to."

"It could be something about Hodge," Clary insists.

And that's what makes Jace climb off of her, releasing her sore wrists. "Fine." He exits from the room swiftly, leaving Clary to roll onto her back and stare up at the high ceiling of the training room, the harsh lights glaring down at her. She rests for a moment, calming the frantic hammer of her heart and the faint trembles in her stomach.

And then Jace returns, an excited glint in his eyes. "Get dressed, sweetheart. Our dear friend Hodge is having a party tonight."

* * *

**Next chapter is going to be so much fun to write! I love writing party scenes! They are so fun! Anyway, thank y'all for reviewing as much as y'all have already. Y'all make me feel good about myself! **


	8. Chapter 8

**I bet y'all didn't believe me when I said I wasn't going to update again, did y'all? Well, here it is. I might, MIGHT, post Chapter 9 tonight, too, although I do have my reservations about ending the night on an odd chapter. We will have to wait and see.**

**Half Truths update will definitely be tomorrow. Sorry.  
**

**Also, I hope I didn't anger y'all when I said I was discontinuing Half Truths and then added just kidding. Because only nine people reviewed for the last chapter, and I'm left to think that I made some of y'all mad. Or maybe y'all have just completely spoiled me by reviewing a lot for chapters and I'm just being a brat. Probably being a brat. I'm sorry. I just get so dang addicted to these reviews! I'm hooked! So...please review! (: I know Chapter 7 sucked, so that's actually probably why y'all didn't review. So it's okay.  
**

**Also, on an unrelated note, I am highly amused by the reviews pertaining to Clary and Jace getting it on. Y'all are cracking me up. I've never had a story where so many people seem excited about the prospect of Clary and Jace doing the dirty, not even Half Truths. Y'all make me constantly laugh and blush at the SAME TIME.**

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Clary shivers, pulling at her short little dress when she's climbed of off Jace's bike. She pulls her fingers through her windblown hair and eyes the huge warehouse before her. The dirty, hazy windows flash with neon lights. The ground vibrates with seductive, heavy bass that runs across the broken parking lot, into Clary's boots, shivering up her legs. Seemingly hundreds of different vehicles are parked in the lot, each one looking luxurious and sleek. Although the bright, shimmering lights of the Inner City are miles away, there is wealth here, still.

In confusion, Clary looks over to Jace as he yanks at his tie, pulling it loose. "This is a slum."

"I know." Jace offers a quick half grin, his eyes roaming over all the rich cars. "But it's become quite a popular pastime of the rich and bored to meander into the darker parts of town. Gives them a thrill, I suppose."

Clary's nose crinkles slightly. "So they play at living a dangerous life yet still go home to sleep in their penthouses at night?"

Jace chuckles. "That's right. Boss Hodge seems to enjoy throwing parties for that kind of clientele."

"Can we kill him, then?" Clary inquires, cocking her head.

Jace's lips purse in his beautifully familiar smirk before he places a finger beneath Clary's chin and tilts her head up to meet his eyes. "The moment he ceases to be of use to us, sweetheart."

* * *

"Do you have an invitation?" the hulking man at the door inquires.

Clary peeps up at Jace curiously, to watch how he handles the question.

"I don't," Jace replies breezily, shrugging. His hands are stuffed casually in his slacks pockets. His expression is dull and apathetic, unlike him. But very much like one of the boys that drive the expensive cars littered in the lot behind them.

"No?" the large man arches a miraculously bushy brow.

"No." Jace's eyes skip from side to side before he leans in slowly and says, "But I do have a rather large amount of cash."

The man is looking rather amused now. "Oh, really?" he asks, his voice dripping sarcasm.

Jace nods and then leans back, rocking on his heels. He tosses an arm around Clary, pulls her very close. She's surrounded by his heavenly scent. "This is my girlfriend. And you see, she's never been to a party like this. It's my job to widen her horizons, don't you think?"

The man inclines his chin just a bit, pursing his lips. His massive arms are crossed tightly over his massive chest.

"So I heard about this party. And I thought we'd pop in. Didn't think it'd be a problem."

"Well, it is a problem. No invite, no entrance. Those are the rules." The man is staring down at Jace with slightly arched brows.

"C'mon," Jace exhales. Then he eases closer to the man and casts his eyes over at Clary. He drops his voice into a whisper that Clary can barely hear. "She's cute, isn't she?"

"That she is," the man allows.

"Fucking sexy, I'd venture."

"Yeah," the man replies.

"But there's a catch. Don't let that little black dress fool you—she's a good girl. Well, not a good-good girl, but one that has pretty high morals and standards set forth."

"So your money doesn't talk to her as much, does it?" the man muses.

"That's right. You see where I'm coming from now, don't you? Well, I figure if I can show her a better time than the other rich pricks she runs around with, if I can give her a worth-wild, dangerous kind of party—maybe I'll get laid tonight."

Clary pretends she doesn't hear anything, just like she's supposed to. She merely crosses her arms and pretends to be the impatient brat she's meant to look.

The man is chuckling a little.

"So, please, man. Help me out. It's been a while—you know how it is." Jace arches his brows pleadingly. "And I mean—look at her. C'mon. Just let us in. I'll throw in some money for you, and no one's even going to know. Then we both get what we want, right?"

Clary listens in fascination at the light tone Jace's voice has taken. Honest and pleasing to the ear, the perfect mixture of sad and hopeful.

The man really doesn't have a chance. He sighs heavily and moves to jerk one of the large metal doors open. Immediately, a cloud of strong smoke and the sound of delicious music trickle out. "If you cause trouble," the man warns.

Jace is already pulling out a wad of money. "No way, man. I'm totally cool. Isn't that right, babe?"

Clary spares a slightly bored, slightly agitated glance. "We'll see."

"Told you how she was," Jace whispers to the man as he clasps hands with him, easily exchanging the money. "Thanks again, man." Then he walks over to Clary, tosses an arm around her, and starts for the opened door.

"Sure. Good luck, kid," the man replies, rolling his eyes a bit.

Jace simply jerks his chin up in response, a smirk on his face, and then they are slipping inside the massive warehouse, where the party rages. The door slings shut behind them, trapping them in the haze of smoke and humidity and darkness and flashing neon and the lust and sweat of the frantic dancers packed across the open floor.

Jace shudders beside Clary, his nose crinkling. "I hate deception."

Clary smirks up at him just slightly. "But you're good at it."

Jace swings his head down towards her dramatically, and tries to look serious but ruins it at the last minute by grinning as he says, "That's not all I'm good at."

"Sure, 'babe,'" Clary mocks playfully, pushing his face away.

Jace just shoves his hands into his pockets again with a faint smile before switching gears and surveying their surroundings with laser-like eyes.

The warehouse has a tall ceiling and a massive open area that's been converted into the dance floor. Old industrial-type equipment still stands, shoved up the walls of the warehouse in order to make room. The machinery stands dusty and grim, like looming shadowy monsters reaching out for the oblivious, sinful dancers with skeletal fingers.

It is completely dark except for the flashing of neon lights and roaming spotlights cutting through the thick, dusty air. Music pulses and pounds so loudly that Clary can't think, the sounds looping and maddening. She feels disconnected and connected. Her lungs fill with sweat-dampened air, along with something sweet and sticky that's being blown out in clouds from something unseen, contributing to the haze.

Clary's hand finds Jace's a bit apprehensively. She isn't sure she likes this party.

His fingers curl protectively around hers as his eyes still roam over the room, taking in everything, leaving nothing unseen. He finally focuses his gaze and leans towards Clary's ear to whisper, "I see Hodge."

"How do you know it's him?" she asks back.

"Pictures. I've been doing some research on him—that turns up nothing, as you know, except what he looks like. Regardless, he's here. And that means he's not in his office."

"So you can turn up something now, then?" Clary inquires with a tiny smile as she glances up at him.

Jace kisses the tilt of her lips quickly. "Yes. Come on, Clary. We're going to do some detestable work: spying."

* * *

Clary quietly follows Jace down the long stretch of the hallway. The rest of the warehouse is made up of narrow passages, lined on either side with offices recently restored to better glory than they ever had been. Jace informs her that this is where Boss Hodge and his associates do all business now, and since he is the Boss of the biggest chunk of the slums, his money shows with every lavish detail in which the warehouse has been restored.

"Do you have any idea as to where Hodge's office is?" Clary inquires softly.

"I suppose it will be where the foreman's office was—the biggest and best of all," is Jace's easy response.

"And where do you _suppose_ it will be?" she asks sweetly.

"You sure are sassy tonight," Jace remarks and then peeps over his shoulder at her to grin in approval.

There's a sharp cry of protest before Clary can respond, and the duo turns towards the sound. A large man jogs towards them, a scowl on his face. "What the hell are you two doing back here? This is off limits."

"Actually, we're looking for Hodge's office. You wouldn't happen to know where it is, would you?" Jace inquires, tilting his head curiously.

The man's eyes immediately narrow, and he comes back with a snarky, "No, I wouldn't. But I'm sure I can arrange an escort to the office." The man's hand goes for a small walkie-talkie on his hip.

But Jace has already produced his gun and is giving a regretful wince as he aims it at the man. "I'm afraid that was the incorrect answer. Too bad you had to be a smart-ass."

"Wha—" the man begins, but Jace is already on him, slamming him back into the wall. Jace's free hand tangles into the man's hair and slams his head back with a resounding crack.

And then Jace sticks the gun to the man's temple and says lightly, "Now. I'll ask again. Where is Hodge's office?"

"Down the hall! Up a flight of steps. It's the only office on the second floor," the man rushes out, his eyes huge saucers.

Jace sighs and glances over to Clary. "It's hard to find true loyalty, isn't it?"

"Hey, fuck you," the man cries, his pride making an appearance. "I'm loyal—just not loyal enough to get my fucking head blown off!"

"Yet, you'll get your fucking head blown off anyway." Jace gives him a confused look before dropping the façade as quickly as he fires off two bullets into the man's chest. Jace catches the dead weight easily and jerks his chin at Clary. "Open that closet door please."

Clary obliges and helps Jace drag the dead man inside. Then they close the door on him, and Jace brushes off his hands and says, almost regretfully, "Too bad I didn't shoot him in the head. That would have been poetic. But headshots splatter so much. We don't anyone knowing we're here, do we?" Jace stows his gun into the waistband of his pants before smiling brightly at Clary. "All right. _Now_, I know exactly where Hodge's office is. Happy?"

* * *

Jace detests lock-picking.

Mainly, he doesn't believe in locks at all.

Secondly, he simply hates taking the time to pick the damn things.

They are so finicky and _annoying_.

"Piece of shit," Jace exclaims, almost in surprise, to the small lock he's been attempting to open for the past two minutes.

Clary leans patiently against the wall on the other side of the doorknob. She's got her arms crossed and her eyes focused on Jace's hands as he works. "May I try it?" she inquires softly.

"Be my guest," he returns, stepping away to allow her the honors.

Carefully, she takes over. Her movements are a lot less jerky and violent than Jace's were, and only in twenty-one seconds—Jace counts—the lock clicks softly and Clary beams over at him.

"Damn," he whispers, looking down at the doorknob in pleased shock. "How'd you know how to do that?"

"I picked a few locks in my old apartment building—to raid cabinets and stuff when I got hungry," Clary replies primly. Then she smiles, a smile that Jace doesn't think she means to make seductive but one that makes him want her all the more. "I got pretty decent at it."

He stares down at her a moment, his whirlwind mind quieting just a bit as his eyes start falling into the emerald green depths of hers. Her smile fades until there is just a hint of curve to her sweet little mouth, and blood stains her ivory cheeks but she doesn't look away from him, doesn't let him look away from her.

A wave of pure, scorching desire washes over him. He wants her so badly it's the only thought that echoes in his normally chaotic mind. But she's yet to give in, to even let him _touch_ her, for whenever his hand drifts up her leg, she promptly removes it. It's driving him slowly crazy. Perhaps he already was crazy, but now it's inflaming the insanity until sometimes, his want for her overpowers everything else and leaves him in a stupor.

Something he can't have, given his profession.

In frustration, he leans down and kisses that smirk off her mouth roughly, until she's whimpering softly. Then he pulls back and says, "You're so fucking sexy," which makes her blush profusely and finally look away from him.

So he can't think of other things again and he turns towards the now-unlocked door and pushes it open. "Watch the hall," he orders Clary before he drifts inside the massive office. There's a wall of wavy-thick, yellowed glass that overlooks the pulsing dance floor below. It's too dark in the office for anyone to see Jace so he walks in confidently, going straight for the huge oak desk scatted with Hodge's papers.

Jace almost moans at how unorganized it is. He can't stand things to be out of place. It makes his skin itch, makes the thoughts in his head buzz like fire. So he stands over the desk, eyeing the mess in frustration, pulling at his hair a little.

"Jace?"

The soft, raspy voice draws his eyes away from the explosion of papers to the green of Clary's eyes. She arches her brows gently as she hovers in the doorway. "Are you okay?" she whispers.

"Yeah," he replies quickly, blinking.

How odd it is, he muses, that Clary can be both the most distracting thing in his mind as well as the most focusing.

He resets his mind and begins shuffling through the papers, his eyes skimming the typed fonts. He doesn't see anything important, though—just the façade of Hodge's "business."

Hodge Manufacturing, though legitimate in the government's eyes, has never made one single product. It's merely a front to a far more lucrative, far more _illegal_ business dealing in drugs. A business that has become louder and louder within the past few months. Louder and _unchecked_ by any government officials.

Maia had been on to something when she thought Hodge was getting away with too much. In the past few months alone, he'd held public executions for those whom had crossed him. He'd hung the traitors up for all of the slums to see, and yet the police never even made a peep.

Obviously, Hodge had some very powerful friends.

Jace wanted to find out _who_ these friends were.

But there was nothing in the Boss's desk to allude to the answer.

With a sigh, Jace drifts over to the various filing cabinets littered in the office—only to find the same result of nothing. Then comes to the tedious task of skimming over ever inch of the room to find a secret compartment for a safe.

Jace goes to it dutifully, and twenty minutes later, when, much to his dismay, he is completely covered in dust, he finds the sneaky little safe under a section floorboard. He pries the hardwoods up and stares down at the black box.

An old-school safe with a dial.

Jace wrinkles his nose but begins feeling it out, trying to crack the combination. Safes are as bad as locks, in Jace's opinion. But to be an Assassin for Chaos, there are certain courses one must take and pass. Lock picking and safe cracking were a few of the tragedies Jace was forced to endure.

Grumbling under his breath at the injustices, Clary peeps back into the office quickly. "Are you almost done?" she inquires.

"Are you as good at cracking safes as you are picking locks?" he asks back, peering up at her hopefully.

"I'm afraid not," she replies in her softest voice.

Jace sighs and goes back to it. Only ten minutes later, he gets it open. There is mostly money, which Jace pushes aside distastefully, until he finally finds, at the bottom of the box, there is a book. Holding the vague tracings of a paper trail.

Jace's eyes skim over it hungrily, memorizing it.

A good portion of Hodge's drug profit has not been pocketed but gone to something else. Something called Hugo, which Jace knows, thanks to his research, is also the name of a pet bird Hodge has. Jace finds it unlikely that Hodge is sending almost half of his earnings to a trust fund for a raven, so Hugo stands in for something else. Or someone.

Slightly pleased, he puts everything back in its place and stands swiftly. "All right—"

"Jace," Clary says quickly, shooting into the office with wide eyes. "Someone's coming."

Jace frowns, inconvenienced. He hadn't meant to get caught tonight, but then he sighs and says, rather cryptically to Clary's ears, "Well, there's no time like the present." Jace jerks his chin, beckoning her over. "Come here, sweetheart."

And she does, without hesitation, which pleases Jace greatly. He likes that Clary doesn't waste time asking stupid questions like "why." Some girls like asking why. Everything has to end with why. But Clary's understanding goes beyond that of a normal girl. She has no need of asking why because she already knows, just like Jace.

"I don't want anymore of those pesky people sniffing around, you understand?" comes a gravelly, irritated voice from the hall.

Clary glances up at Jace with her large, trusting eyes.

He simply rests back on the edge of Hodge's desk, watching the door, waiting for the man to make his appearance.

"Get a handle on things, or this deal is off," the voice snaps. And then there is quiet for a long moment, as if the man has stopped walking to listen to a reply. And then, in a surprising turn, the man's voice comes back, much more subdued. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful, of course. I realize these things happen." There's another moment of stretched silence before the man says, "Okay. Perfect. Erm, thanks." There's a soft click and then followed by shuffled footsteps that carry the man into view.

He freezes in the doorframe, the dim light from the dance floor below giving enough illumination to see the two shades standing in his open office. "What the hell?"

"Hodge, right?" Jace inquires politely, offering a grand smile. "It's a pleasure."

"Who are you?" Hodge asks, and his voice surprises with its completely dull tone. As if this man is very used to being barged in on. "If you're police, you're obviously new." Hodge has a cane, and he leans forward on it, arching a white, bushy brow.

Jace takes note of his tweed suit, his impeccable sense of cleanliness and wealth, all ruined by those eyebrows of his that are like white caterpillars inching across his forehead, trying to meet in the middle.

"I'm not police," Jace replies, his hands in his pants pockets, his body relaxed.

Hodge seems to take note of the younger boy's stance and then looks a bit less stiff, himself. "Then who are you?"

"A curious bystander."

"If you're here, you're hardly a bystander. You're in it up to your elbows."

Jace grins slightly. "I suppose you don't get to the top by being naïve, do you?"

"That you do not, young man," Hodge says in an age-shaken voice. He wobbles further into the office, peering at Jace and Clary coolly. "So I'll ask one more time. Who are you?"

"My name's Jace, if it's so terribly important you know." Jace removes his hands from his pockets and crosses his arms over his chest, tilting his head. "And now, since we're on a first name basis, I feel comfortable enough to ask you what I need to know—and what you will most likely refuse to tell me."

A smirk dances over Hodge's face, and there's a little light of confusion in the older man's eyes, as if he's not used to a smile being on his lips. He says, conversationally, "Then ask what you wish, Jace. Don't keep me in suspense."

Jace's polite tone is then gone, only brutal curiosity left in its place. "Who is it you're giving your drug money to?"

At this, Hodge actually lets out a dry, dusty chuckle. "You're right. I won't tell you that."

"Well, that puts us at odds, unfortunately."

The amusement fades from the old man's eyes, but the mask of a smile remains. "You breaking into my office put us at odds, boy. This just makes it even worse—you having the audacity to ask me about _my_ business."

Jace's eyebrows arch lazily. "Your business? Sounds to me from that phone call you just received that it's not much of your business at all anymore. Half the money isn't yours, either. Got yourself in bed with some powerful people, didn't you, old man? Except now, they're taking over. They're only using you for a means to an end. And I predict, that you'll soon be nothing more than a tired old man without a penny to his name."

"Do you, now?" Hodge inquires, cocking his head. The movement is strangely hawk-like.

Jace just smiles slightly, a dare.

And the older man takes it.

* * *

Clary watches as Hodge's cane flies out. There's a hiss in the air, and she sees with crystal clarity the sharp point of a knife protruding from the end of the stick. She opens her mouth to cry a warning to Jace, but he's already curving away from the slice of the weapon.

The two men immediately clash together. Clary realizes with a shock that Hodge is not as old as he first appeared. Despite the cane and white hair, Clary now sees that his face is hardly lined with age.

And moves almost as elegantly and swiftly as Jace.

Hodge reaches out and knocks the gun from Jace's waistband. The weapon clatters to the ground, and the men rely instead on hand-to-hand combat expertise. Clary stares fearfully as they two of them trade brutal but accurate blows. Each move is countered. Each move is powerful yet efficient. Each dip and spin is graceful. It's almost beautiful, she thinks. It _would_ be beautiful completely if only she weren't worried over Jace getting hurt.

The two men crash into the wall, shaking picture frames to the ground, where they shatter. Shoes crunch over the shards of glass.

And then Hodge is grabbing one of those knife-like pieces and swinging it at Jace. The younger boy hisses in pain as it opens a shallow cut down the entire length of his forearm. Hodge is raising the makeshift weapon again, slicing at Jace's shoulder.

Jace's gun is in Clary's hand suddenly, a heavy force. She aims for the man's white head just as he's rearing back to cut at Jace again. She pulls the trigger, but there's only a furious lack of explosion. Clary looks down at the weapon in frustration, but she has no time to understand its workings. Instead, she runs silently up to Hodge just as he turns his back to her fully, the bloodied cut of glass flashing in his hand, and she brings the butt of the gun down against the man's skull. There's a very satisfying crack and give.

Hodge immediately crumples, and Jace neatly sidesteps him, letting him fall into the mess of razor glass.

Clary is still holding the gun, scowling at it slightly, and Jace grins and walks over to her, plucking it from her grasp neatly. He flips a small switch on the side of the gun and says, around his smirk, "Safety was on, sweetheart."

Clary flushes just slightly and offers a meek smile.

And then Jace turns to Hodge, who is slowly trying to pick himself up off the ground and wincing in pain each time a new stab of glass embeds itself in his skin. "You fight pretty good, old man. Dirty, though." Jace rubs at the bleeding cut on his forearm.

"Fighting honest is overrated," Hodge grunts.

"That's where you're wrong." Jace comes to stand behind Clary, his arms going around her deliciously, and he puts the heavy gun back into her hand, helps her aim it at the old man sitting pathetically in the pile of glass. "Would you like to do the honors, darlin'?"

"Yes, please," Clary says excitedly. She senses Jace's smile, and she remembers the first night they met, when he helped her in this exact same pose. The beginning.

"Aim, shoot, kill, sweetheart," Jace tells her, his hands dropping from hers and going to her shoulders. She feels his lips skim hotly over her jaw, down her neck.

She shivers and bites her lip as she points the weapon at Hodge. It's difficult to keep her aim from wavering with Jace's teasing, wet kisses against her pounding pulse and shoulder.

"You know if you let her kill me," Hodge croaks, "all hell is going to break loose."

"I just thinking how bored I've been lately," Jace murmurs, pausing in his kisses to look over at Hodge from above Clary's shoulder. "This might be exactly what I need to liven things back up, don't you think?"

Hodge glares hatefully, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. "I'm a powerful man, and you're making a mistake. You _can't_ kill me. I'm the Boss of the whole damn Outercity! I've got the power of the police and everyone else on my side. You'll both be dead before the week is—"

The gunshot it soft and gentle, but its reaction is anything but. Hodge's blood splatters back onto the wall like an explosion of red paint. His head falls back, his eyes wide open, a small hole between them, oozing crimson onto his snow-white skin.

Clary tilts lowers the gently smoking gun and tilts her head curiously at the sight. She feels the beat of wings rushing through her body, feels herself float as she regards the raw beauty of such bright red blood against the white of the wall.

Jace's lips are back on her skin, hungrily sucking and biting, making her smile slightly and press back into him, shivering. Her body is abuzz. She's flying again. "Let's go dance," she says, excitedly, her heart beating frantically in her chest, rushing blood everywhere.

Jace's mouth is pulled up into a devilish smile against her shoulder. "Okay," he says, and she feels his hands on her hips, pulling her out of the office, down below, where she can dance and be alive.

* * *

**Hm. Dancing next. This actually wasn't really the party I mentioned. It worked out that the actual party scenes will occur next chapter. **

**So. Are do y'all think Hodge's threats were accurate? Do you think things are going to get bad for Jace and Clary? Or do you think those were just the ramblings of a desperate man?**

**Also, thanks to a precious person that messaged me today (you know who you are), I want to know what your favorite line in this story is. It can be a line of dialogue or a description or...y'all get the point. Please give the line and tell me WHY you like it. I'd be forever grateful.**

**Also, one more question. I'm not a gun person. My dad is, but I didn't think I'd call him just to ask him this question. Do any of my firearm readers know what the butt of a pistol is called? I just called it the butt (don't laugh no matter how ridiculous that sounds). I don't think that's right, though, is it? I mean, on a rifle, it's called the stock, right? But what about a pistol? And what's the difference between a pistol and a revolver? I'm clueless. **


	9. Chapter 9

**HEY! I'll post chapter 10 shortly, so stay tuned please (: Also, thank y'all for all the reviews. Seriously, wow! Please keep them coming. There is nothing more exciting, to me, than getting on here and talking to y'all. That's why I post these stories in the first place, so I can get feedback. Y'all are awesome!**

**On a side note, the person that used frick frack as a euphemism for sex on the last round of reviews...that is the funniest thing ever.**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**

She's lost.

The pulse of music around her is dark and deep, and Clary feels it vibrating up from the floor, into her feet, dancing up her legs, helping the sway of her hips. Jace's arms go around her, his fingers digging gently into her waist, moving her with the music effortlessly.

Immediately, she's immersed in this darkness, with the flashes of light, the sweat of life, the sensual throb of the beat. She moves naturally with Jace, as if she's done this a thousand times, because she's always had good rhythm and nowhere to use it.

Her breathing is labored, her eyes slipping shut. Jace's hands run up and down her body, over her sides, his fingers coming up to just vaguely brush the undersides of her breasts, but its above the fabric of her dress and bra, and she doesn't think to protest. Her mind is lost in the wonder of this new world. She parts her lips and breathes in the sweet air, lets it dance along her tongue.

She feels Jace peeling back her damp hair from her neck, feels him press his lips once to her pounding pulse before his tongue smoothes up the line of her artery, making her squint her eyes shut harder. She doesn't understand this, of course, but she likes it very much. It's a frighteningly intense feeling, one that concentrates in her stomach and lower, and it feels slightly maddening yet somehow delicious. It drives her to do something, though she doesn't know what.

Jace's left hand grabs her hip, squeezing her flesh as they move. His other comes to slide down her stomach, dips under her short dress so his rough-feeling fingers scrape contrastingly against the silk of her skin above her panties. He fingers her hipbones lightly.

A shiver runs down her spine, mixing up her insides. She grabs the arm he has around her, and her fingernails dig a little too sharply into his skin, drawing blood without meaning, too, and somehow, over the loud music, she hears him growl.

In the seductive darkness of the warehouse, hidden in the masses of writhing bodies, Clary is pulled back against Jace intimately, and she feels him for the first time, finds herself pressing against him in a mix of curiosity and desire.

Her head is fuzzy, and she is lost. Happily lost. Happily in flight.

Both of Jace's hands are on her hips now, guiding her into pleasure, moving her back roughly against him, and he whispers, softly but with a note of unrestrained excitement quivering in his voice, "Do you know what that is, sweetheart?"

"Mm, no," she breathes, her eyelids heavy. The world dances with color and darkness and smoke and pleasure.

"Does it feel good?" he asks, pressing that steel-like _something_ against her harder.

"Yes," she agrees, breathlessly.

Suddenly, everything and everyone blurs by her until she is in a dark alcove, almost completely hidden from the dance floor.

Jace is turning her in his grasp to face him, and without hesitation, he lifts her, slamming her back against the wall and grasping at her legs, pulling them around his waist, his fingers digging wonderfully into her thighs.

His lips are hard against hers, and he barely gives her room to catch her breath before he's slamming forward, pressing against her more directly from this position. It's right where it needs to be, without Clary even knowing where that is. She just knows that she cries out softly in pleasure when he rocks his hips forward.

She looks down between them with heavy-lidded eyes, and sees with some surprise that the hardness is _part_ of Jace, inside his pants and bulging in his jeans, straining against the denim.

She wants to ask him why.

But she can't say anything but "yes" and "Jace" over and over, like a whispered, sacred chant. Her hands knot in his hair as his lips scorch down from hers, to her neck, and she feels his teeth nip brutally at her pulse before he begins sucking against her skin feverishly, intensifying _everything_.

He gets rougher. The slam of his hips against hers is nearly frantic, and she is moving like she never has before, writhing around, bucking into him, circling against the hardness with desperation.

She feels him everywhere around her. She feels one hand squeezing her bottom while the other squeezes the soft flesh of her breast, and there is a sudden heaviness in her chest that she doesn't understand. Sweat has broken out over her body, and she feels as though she has a fever—cold and hot.

Fear begins welling up inside her because something big will happen. Perhaps her body will explode. It feels like it. Perhaps she'll just come apart and dissolve into the air and be no more.

In panic, she whispers Jace's name.

But he continues to suck viciously at her skin until it hurts, and then he lets go, lapping his tongue at the pulsing, throbbing place on her neck. She shivers in delight and terror.

His movements more forceful against her, now, until her back clashes against the wall painfully. "Jace!" She means it to be a firm order to stop, but it comes out as a breath of ecstasy.

"It's okay, Clary," he whispers, and then everything comes to a sudden jerk in her body, and she arches her back, pressing her hips forward against his violently, tipping her head back and crying out as she does explode. And for a moment, there is nothing, and she thinks she is nothing, but she comes back to herself and feels _everything_ deep within her body.

She's rubbing against him, without even thinking, drawing the feeling of light out, and Jace is suddenly shaking, too, breathing out a shaky sound before dropping his sweaty forehead against her neck and pressing into her, two bodies rubbing and quaking, pushing relentlessly against each other, a tug of war neither side wins.

Clary stills, her legs cramping because they have constricted so tightly around Jace. Inside herself, between her legs, she feels gentle pulses still. She wants to cry. She doesn't understand it.

Jace's hands go out to brace himself against the wall, on either side of her head, and she wraps her legs even tighter around him, so she doesn't slip down to the ground. She knows she can't stand. Her body is still trying to piece itself back together.

"What was it?" she asks.

Jace's smile is tired and slow against her neck before he pulls back to look at her. His face is sleepy, almost peaceful, if someone like him can ever be at peace. He's all warmth instead of fire. Clary feels herself sigh.

Then his lips are at hers, gentle this time as he says, "The beginning."

* * *

The phone rings.

He picks up in the blackness of the apartment. "Hello?"

"Hodge is dead. Murdered," comes the grim greeting.

There is silence from him as he thinks. Processes. "Who did it?"

"Not sure yet."

"Find out, then," is his response. Firm. Devoid of emotion on the outside, but boiling with them inside.

"Yes, sir."

"And when you do, kill them."

"Yes, sir."

"Things have already been set in motion. But make sure they still go off without a hitch, understand? You can't screw this up."

"I won't."

"I know." And then he hangs up and lies back in his cool silk sheets, staring up at the ceiling of his apartment. Plotting.

* * *

Izzy lies in her bed restlessly. She's been busy all day. She killed five people today, from her hidden spot on a roof, with some well placed shots. She always sleeps like a baby after doing her job. But she hasn't been able to sleep for a while now, despite the extra jobs she's been asking for.

She turns violently, tangled in her sheets. Her hand reaches out, fingertips skimming the cold silk, finding nothing. She feels her heart constrict despite herself. Alec always tells her she gets too attached. She always tells him to go fuck himself. But she knows, deep down, that he's right.

Izzy rubs at her face aggressively, sitting up. She claps once and the room is filled with the golden light of her bedside lamps. The window-wall's dimmer lessens, giving Izzy a clear view of the lively city below. The cars and buildings all sparkle with dark light. She rests her chin on her knees and surveys the movement, the seductive excitement that is so different from the clean-cut glisten of the city in the day.

Night is Jace's. It always has been. He's the one that can't sleep at night, so he gets all the night hits. Rarely ever does anyone else in Chaos pull something off at night.

Izzy remembers the first time they slept together. It was her eighteenth birthday, and like all other girls she knew, she'd harbored a crush on Jace for years, despite how insane he was. She remembers how, at the party Alec threw for her, she asked Jace to come back to her apartment with her, that there was something wrong with the lock on her gun safe and she couldn't ask anyone in the apartment complex for help, obviously.

She remembers how he'd smiled at her and said, "Cut the bullshit, Isabelle."

So she'd told him what she really wanted and she still smiles now when she remembers his simple answer of "Okay" like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Like she'd always suspected, he'd been good. A little rough and wild but she'd been into that at the time. His ridiculous energy level and his lack of reservations that made him good at his job also made him a good lover.

But she remembers afterward, when she thought he'd pass out like most guys, he just stared up at the ceiling, unblinking for the longest time. She'd asked him, "What's wrong?" and he'd just said, "I don't sleep at night." There was something in the way he said it that made her know it was more than just insomnia.

Looking back, she thinks now it was probably due to his childhood—some kind of trauma. Something that happened at night. Because the next time, when they'd screwed around, it had been the day time, and just like a boy, he'd conked out immediately afterward.

Izzy feels fondly towards Jace. Something about him, despite his complete lack of sympathy, is admirable. He's obviously touched in the head, but he's been around so long, a constant like Alec, that she can't help but feel responsible for him.

She wonders about the situation with the little redhead he's picked up. It must mean something great for him to have taken her in. He's never done anything like that before. Does he actually _love_ Clary?

This seems unlikely in Isabelle's eyes, but stranger things have happened. Like the relationship between her and _him_ that is most likely the cause of her insomnia now.

Her phone rings shrilly, cutting through her thoughts like a blessed knife, and she sighs in relief, kicking out of the sheets and running towards the sound of her saving grace.

* * *

Clary stares at herself in the mirror curiously, trying to decipher what makes her look different. Her hair is wet from her bath, hanging around her face attractively, no longer the mess of untamed strands it used to be—but that's not it. It's not what makes her different.

Her skin is healthy and glowing, no longer malnourished and sallow. But that's not it, either.

It's her eyes, she decides, leaning in closer to the mirror, getting a better look. They are still wide and green, but they are darker than she remembers them being. Much, much darker.

Her lips curve in a slow smile.

She walks out of the bathroom, into the living area. The city is alive with nightly energy below, the lights flashing and twinkling. She sees Jace in their illumination. He's sitting on one of the massive, flat leather couches, shirtless and attending to his cuts carefully.

Clary drifts over in her silken, short nightgown. She climbs up beside him, snuggling into his side. Her head falls on his shoulder, her eyes watching in fascination as he sews up the gash on his forearm.

"Does it hurt?" she whispers.

"Yes."

"Does it feel good, too?"

"Yes." There's a smile in his voice as he says this. He finishes the sewing swiftly and doctors the wound appropriately before bandaging it with Clary's offered help. And then they both settle back into the couch, his arm going around her small shoulders. She feels his fingers playing with her hair, and she shuts her eyes, pressing her nose into his skin, drinking his scent.

"Do you know what sex is, Clary? The actual act of sexual intercourse?" he inquires, and his voice is careful. Neutral. Not teasing or playful or suggestive—just curious.

"Yes," she whispers, curling closer to him, embarrassed. "I know—a little."

"How much?" he asks. She feels his hand tug at her hair gently, prodding her to lift her head. She does and meets his bright, beautiful eyes in the darkness of the apartment, in the illumination of the city outside.

"I don't want to tell you."

Jace's eyebrows arch and a smile finally lifts the corners of his mouth. "You don't?"

Clary shakes her head. "It's embarrassing."

His eyes sear into her. His face is very close, his breath warm against her lips. "It's not embarrassing, Clary." He reaches out, traces the lines of her mouth, his darkened eyes watching. "Sex is natural, like fighting. Like killing. Humans have been doing it since the beginning of time." Jace's hands brush over her face, down her neck and throat, hot and rough-feeling.

Clary can feel her heart pulsing strong beats throughout her whole body.

"It's instinctual," Jace whispers against her lips. He's leaning forward, gently lowering her back, until he's hovering darkly above her on the couch, his arms braced on either side of her head, the muscles of his arms hard. She reaches up to touch them, to feel the strength. "It's primal," Jace says, kissing the words to her. His lips skim over to her cheek. "Our bodies urge us to try to reproduce and reward us when we give in."

Clary's shivering, hot-and-cold again. Feverish. But she knows she isn't sick.

Jace's words are soft and dark in her ears, like silk. "I want you to give in, Clary," he says against her ear. "I want to show you." She feels his hand skim over her leg oh-so slowly. "And I don't want you to be embarrassed." The hand slips carefully between her legs, resting on her inner thigh for a moment.

There is so much heat. Clary is lost again. Lost in the fire and the sky. She can't think of anything but Jace, but his idle hand that is so close to touching her where she's never been touched or even dreamed of being touched. Of where she suddenly feels she _needs_ to be touched.

"I don't want you to ever be embarrassed about this," Jace whispers, moving so that his lips are against hers again and his eyes are so gold, like the sun, but infinitely more beautiful and more blinding. They burn her own eyes.

His hand moves, touches her through her panties.

Her eyes slip shut, her lips pressing together furiously. Her body is arching, her breathing shuddering. Her arms reach over her head, her fingers gripping the arm of the couch desperately as she feels him push the fabric of her panties away, feels him gently _there_ for the first time.

"Jace," she whispers, her body bent up towards him, yearning and taut and ready.

And then there's a harsh knock against the door.

Everything shatters.

Clary's body drops back against the couch, blood rushing to her cheeks as she realizes truly what she's let Jace do to her.

He curses furiously under his breath above her, his head snapping up towards the door, a glare on his face.

The knocking gets louder.

"Jace!" Izzy's voice shouts, muffled but irritated still. "Jace, you fucking idiot. I know you're in there! I heard you come in an hour ago!"

Jace's face turns sour.

"Go see what she wants," Clary tells him quietly.

He sighs but listens. Carefully, he rolls off of Clary, allowing her to pull in a much-needed breath. She glances down at herself and finds her legs to be splayed open widely and indecently. With a rush of heat in her cheeks, she snaps her knees back together and sits up, trying to collect herself.

Twice in one night. She feels out of control. She supposes this is a side effect of flying: sometimes getting caught up in the wind currents.

"What do you want?" Jace asks in annoyance as he slams open the door.

Clary looks to the right and sees the silhouette of Izzy in the doorway. Her arms are crossed and her hip cocked. "Alec has been calling you nonstop. Why the hell did you turn your phone off? We _never_ turn our phones off."

"Its battery died," is Jace's simple response.

"Then you charge it, dumb ass. What is this? Some protest against technology now? It's not like you're not weird enough as it is, being opposed to locks on doors."

"Isabelle, please vacate the premises. You are _severely_ annoying me."

"Tough shit. We're both needed. Council called. Big deal. Bring Red with you, if you want. I'm guessing she's the reason you're sporting that major hard-on right now."

"You're disgustingly crass," is Jace's simple reply before he slams the door shut on her face. Then, he turns towards Clary and smiles graciously. "Would you like to go see the infamous Council?"

* * *

**Y'all get to meet the Council next! (; Please keep letting me know what your favorite line/lines are and why. Those are fun to read! Thanks(:**


	10. Chapter 10

**SUPER SHORT CHAPTER WHICH SUCKSSSSS! It throws everything off, being this short with the other chapters being longer. Oh, well. I give up. Anyway, this was originally going to be longer, but at the break, I realized I should just cut it off before I make it into A SUPER LONG chapter and mess everything up that way, too. And if I cut it off now, I can post it for y'all, and I promised another chapter and I couldn't leave y'all on an odd chapter so BAM! Here y'all go.**

**I just finished writing a lot for Half Truths (which if you aren't reading that, which I think most of you are but I'm just being careful, is written in first person). So if I slip into first person any time in this story, that's why and I'm sorry in advance. Also, this one is told from Jace's POV which I find both challenging and really fun. Like playing within the wide-open boundaries of Jace and Clary's lack of empathy, I get to play with Jace's short attention span. I can write all over the place, almost like stream of consciousness, with him, and I LOVE IT! Some of y'all might not like how jumpy it is, but trust me, it's super fun to write! **

**Anyway, y'all have a great night/ day depending on where you are. And also... REVIEW! Please (:**

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

Jace's mind is buzzing as he sits in one of the cushy balcony chairs. His knee jerks up and down impatiently as the Council sits below, each of the four members attending to the trial of a man that stole a million dollars from the government funds.

He wonders why the Council bothered calling if they were going to spend an hour ahead of time persecuting the sweaty, blubbering man seated before them, hundreds of public eyes staring him down from around the carnivorous circle of a room.

It's like a theatre, Jace thinks, the way this place is built. The Council is on the raised stage, their eyes staring down at everything like gods. The audience is curled around them, stacked on top of each other in multiple levels of balconies. The lights are bright and gold, beating down on the Council. The man on trial has a singular spotlight pointed to him. The audience is doused in shadow.

Jace shifts in aggravation. He wants to be at home. Sleeping. It's daylight now, and he can't stand being awake during the day. It messes his schedule up completely.

He glances over to Clary, who is sitting next to him quietly, her eyes wide and green as she stares down at the trial, watching everything, hearing everything. She's an observer, he thinks. She may look sweet and innocent and naïve, but he has the sneaking suspicion she knows more than one might think. And that she absorbs _everything._

She _is _a quick learner. That much he's already seen. She's picked up on everything he's taught her about weapons. She's like a sponge, taking in everything.

His mind veers slightly. He wonders how quickly she'd learn _other_ things, things he's more than willing to show her—

Clary's hand suddenly falls on his knee, stilling it. She squeezes gently, soothingly, and her eyes never stray from the Council and their increasingly grim outlook on what the man's done.

Jace's eyes narrow down at the little hand she has on him. He's not sure if he likes it or not. He normally detests people just _touching_ him. Sex is one thing, but he can't stand to be touched outside of that. It makes him itchy and nervous. He won't even let a girl give him a hand job. It just seems pointless. A waste of time. There's never a need to touch unless you're trying to procreate. Anything else makes no sense to him. _He_ can touch. He just doesn't like anyone else touching _him_.

But Jace doesn't yank Clary's hand away. Something stops him from doing so.

A flash of memory cuts into his skull: his mother hugging him tightly, nearly suffocating him in her breasts. He remembers very clearly the overpowering scent of her harsh, bitter perfume, the way she'd sobbed, the way he felt like he was going to explode if she held him one second longer. It had felt like her arms were a vise squeezing tighter and tighter until he couldn't breathe.

He had wanted to kill her in that moment.

His father was a bastard, but his mother was a coward—even worse, in Jace's eyes.

And now he's back fully in the present, still staring at Clary's hand, envisioning himself jerking it away from him and then seeing himself pulling it up higher, to rest against his—

"Jace!"

His head snaps over to Izzy, who sits on his other side. "What?" he demands, irritable. There's an electric current in his head, buzzing incessantly, like an old fluorescent light about to blow. It's driving him to the brink of insanity. His whole body feels wired in the worst of ways. He wants to squirm away from the discomfort, but the discomfort is _inside_ him. He can't get away.

"Valentine's calling for you," Izzy whispers, nodding her head towards the door of the balcony.

Jace's eyes flicker up to find Alec waiting rather impatiently. "Fine," he says before turning his attention to Clary. "Come on, sweetheart."

She looks a little hesitant to leave the trial, but she doesn't complain, simply stands with him and lets him lead her over to Alec, into the hallway.

"Good morning, Alec. You look horrible," Jace comments, noticing the dark bags under Alec's deep blue eyes.

He stares at Jace with his usual lack of emotion. "Valentine wants to see you."

"So I gathered. He does know that the Council asked to speak with us, as well, right?" Jace glances down at Clary and says, conversationally, "We're awful popular today, aren't we?"

"Valentine knows. He knows everything, Jace."

"I wouldn't go that far. While I do think Valentine has a vast amount of knowledge, to say he knows _everything_ seems a bit far-fetched, and I'd rather think—"

"Follow me," Alec snaps, turning on his heel and marching down the luxurious halls of the Council Building, the one that shimmers like a massive beacon in the dead center of Alicante—the tallest skyscraper in the city, the one that towers over everyone else, just like the Council itself.

"Alec's social skills are terribly lacking," Jace says, to Clary, but aimed at Alec himself.

"Says the psychopath," Alec mutters, walking briskly.

"Now, now. Let's not call names. Perhaps I am a _bit_ psychotic, but I'm charming. That's all that matters in the end, isn't it?"

"I would say your victims disagree."

"My victims aren't in much of a place to disagree—or to do anything, for that matter," Jace says brightly. Clary is at his elbow, a silent shadow that seems to warm his skin though she never touches him. He can sense her breathing, her steps. He's very _aware_ of her in a way he's not aware of others. Like she burns brighter than the rest.

"Yeah, whatever," which is Alec's knee-jerk response to something he can't reply snarkily to. Jace's shoulders droop in disappointment. When Alec gives up, Jace feels cheated. "Valentine's in here," Alec goes on to say, jerking his chin towards a thick wooden door.

"Thank you, Alec," Jace replies sweetly, pushing the door open and drifting inside, Clary trailing him.

The room is smoky and surging with old world wealth, just like the rest of the Council Building. Unlike its modern counterparts, the Council Building is entirely decorated and styled in an older, richer time where technology was not as highly valued as intelligence alone. The walls in this study-type room are dark and wooden, the rugs on the floors thick and rich, the furniture heavy and ornate.

It suits Valentine as much as his sleek, dangerous office in his own building.

He sits comfortably in a wing-backed chair, his legs crossed, his fingers pressed together, hovering beneath his chin. He offers a small smile. "Jace. Nice to see you."

"Always a pleasure, Valentine," Jace replies.

"And Clary, too. Hello, dear."

Jace glances over in time to see Clary smile softly and tilt her head at him in response.

"Both of you, have a seat," the older man says graciously.

Jace drops easily into one of the leather, overstuffed loveseats before Valentine. Clary sits primly beside him, close but not touching. He wonders briefly if she _knows_.

"I would like to talk about Jordan's death before the Council brings us all in to debrief us on…whatever it is that the Council is worried about today." Valentine rolls his eyes carefully.

"What is it you'd like to know?" Jace inquires, tilting his head. Then he tilts it back the other way sharply, popping his neck. His neck always bothers him. It gets so tense, and it catches sometimes—

"I want to know the entire thing—from start to finish. You never did turn in a report." Valentine's tone is slightly disapproving, the admonishment hovering delicately in the air.

Jace offers a sheepish grin. "You know how I hate writing those things."

"Those things are necessary, Jace."

"Yes, but why, exactly? I mean, you destroy them after you've read them—can't have anything tying back to our program, which is, obviously illegal." Jace shifts on the couch, his foot tapping rapidly against the floor.

Valentine's eyebrows arch slowly. "Jace. You never are so outspoken on such matters. Is something bothering you?"

"No," Jace says. He feels funny, sweaty. He can feel the sweat gathering in the hair at his temples, threatening to stream down, to expose him. Can Valentine see on his face that he helped kill Hodge? Valentine doesn't like freelance. Jace doesn't _do_ freelance.

He should have thought things through better.

Clary clouds his mind.

His eyes snap over to her helplessly. She's staring curiously at Valentine, her eyes laser-focused but deceptively so. She's very good at hiding how hard she's listening to things, Jace thinks.

She's awful. He needs to kill her. He obviously can't have her ruining him. That's what she's doing—ruining him. She's making him do bad things. Bad, bad things. Not good bad things, like usual. Bad, bad things.

"Jace?"

Jace's eyes flicker back to Valentine and his coolly arched brows. "What?"

"Jace, are you well, son? You seem a bit jittery," Valentine comments.

"I'm always jittery."

"Perhaps a bit more jittery than usual, then."

"I haven't slept in a while. I'm having a hard time focusing," Jace admits because this is the truth. He likes the truth. It never leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

"Do you need to see Doctor Penhallow?"

Jace winces, remembering Aline and the state he left things with her. "Ah, no."

At this, Valentine's lips tilt upwards. "Perhaps a different doctor, then?"

"No doctors. They give me medicine. You know I don't like those. They mess…they mess with everything." Jace motions vaguely to his head.

"All right." Valentine's voice is colored with amusement now and certain sort of fondness that Jace doesn't like. "So then, back to Jordan."

Jace recounts the story with perfect accuracy, down to the smallest of details, calling on his photographic memory to help him. He is forced to leave out a few things, such as his questioning of Jordan and Maia's snooping. He doesn't like the omissions of the truth. They are very much a lie, really. But he can't let anyone know what is happening yet—not until he figures it out.

Valentine listens carefully, nodding at the correct parts, and then Jace is done and his gaze is moving back towards Clary without his consent.

She looks over at him, smiles a bit cryptically. Jace frowns, not understanding her like he wants to. She confounds him. He wants to figure her out. He doesn't like secrets or mysteries. He needs to _understand_.

"Well, that's unfortunate." Valentine sighs heavily. "It's a shame Maia did such a foolish thing. If she had come to me with the information about her affair, like you did, none of this would have happened."

Jace's eyes narrow. Now it is Valentine who is lying. Either he or the Council called for Maia's death. No one else has such pull. Someone knows about Maia's sniffing around, and someone didn't like it.

Valentine's eyes hone in on the bandage covering most of Jace's forearm. He jerks his chin at the wound. "What happened there?"

Jace's eyes flicker down, almost in surprise, and his mouth goes dry. More lies. He almost moans. He _hates_ them. He hates lying. He hates it, hates it, hates it. His mother lied. She always lied to him, whispered words of love and promises of things she never gave.

_Liar_.

"Jace is teaching me how to fight," Clary says, and her voice is so soft and new in the room that is shocks. "He was teaching me how to use knives, and I'm afraid I got a bit careless with them. He didn't want to tell on me, but it was my mistake. It won't happen again."

Jace's eyes are wide, staring at Clary and her gentle voice. But she only looks at Valentine, her eyebrows arched slightly.

"I see." Valentine smiles. "Well, that's quite all right. It's nothing worth hiding. Everyone makes mistakes, don't they, Jace?"

Jace blinks. "Yes."

"I trust your training is going well besides the incident, Clary?" Valentine asks, pursing his lips.

"Oh, yes. Jace is a very good teacher." Clary's cheeks turn just the softest shade of rose.

It's all it takes to make a smirk appear on Jace's mouth.

"Well, that is lovely." Valentine seems to notice Jace's reaction, but he keeps his amusement polite. Neutral and careful, as everything about Valentine is. "I suppose we should all go see to what the Council wants now. Jace, in the future, please write a report. They are necessary. I don't like repeating myself."

"Yes, of course," Jace says.

"Good." Valentine rises and says, "I will see you two momentarily." And then, with effortless grace, the older man drifts from the room, shutting them behind.

Jace looks over at Clary, his eyes probing. "Why'd you lie?"

"Because you don't like to," Clary replies, looking back at him with her innocent eyes that are not so innocent at all. "And we had to. He can't know yet. He might be involved."

Jace stares at her blankly.

"You aren't mad, are you?" she whispers, a pucker forming between her brows.

He grins suddenly. "Of course not. I'm just simply in awe of you. And slightly afraid of you."

Clary's eyebrows arch, her eyes going even wider than he thought possible. "Of me?" she almost laughs.

"Yes, of you." Jace feels his grin darken until he is leaning down, until his lips are touching her sweet, warm ones. He says, slowly and teasingly, "You are absolutely the most terrifying girl I've ever met."

"Hardly," she scoffs, and she's blushing delightfully.

Jace simply says, "I don't like lying, remember?"

* * *

**I've decided I love writing Jace. He can be so cryptic and jumbled and completely metaphorical and confusing, and it's so entertaining to write. I hope it's entertaining for y'all to read, too, instead of just annoying.**

**Anyway, because I'm getting addicted to this question, y'all please let me know your favorite lines and why. I'm just going to ask that question for every chapter I post because I love hearing the answers. The consensus for last chapter seemed to be Izzy's comment about Jace's, ahem, _problem_. Y'all both amuse me and make me blush! Although, that line, if we're getting technical, did come from me. But it didn't feel like me saying it. It felt like Izzy. And now y'all are pondering my sanity, I'm sure! **

**And on that note, GOODNIGHT! (:**


	11. Chapter 11

**Shortish chapter! But I'll most likely be posting Chapter 12 later. It depends on how long it takes for me to get my cat to the vet and then I have a lot of stuff to do after that... but hopefully, I'll get it posted. **

**Y'all know how I feel about these odd number chapters.**

**Also, Paul Walker is dead. What is happening? Literally, I am heartbroken. I cried. It's just really, really upsetting. ****Paul Walker... so sad. I just can't get over it, y'all. He was just so cute and he seemed like such a hippie and like he was such a good, laid-back guy. It's just the worst.**  


* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

"Guilty," comes the verdict from the eldest Council member, a gray-headed man with thick wrinkles and startlingly blue eyes, the color of sky. He slams a gavel down. The room reverberates with the sound.

And then everyone begins murmuring, standing, drifting away.

Clary watches the man who has been sentenced. He doesn't move a muscle, just stays as still as stone in his seat. Sweat has formed on his brow, a result of his desperate hope. But now, he is expressionless. No more perspiration beads because he is no longer nervous. The verdict has been reached. Hope is gone, along with everything else.

Clary glances over to Jace, who is chewing on his thumbnail. He's very much on edge today. Clary noticed it ever since they left his apartment with Isabelle. "What will happen to the man?" she inquires, tilting her chin down to the man, who is still motionless in his seat before the rising Council.

"Death." Jace's hand trembles a bit as he lowers it from his mouth. "Or life in the Containment Center. It all depends on what the Council decides. This was just a preliminary hearing, basically. They were just telling him what everyone already knew would be so—he's guilty."

"Do you think he is?" Clary glances back down at the man curiously.

"I have no idea. The evidence didn't seem particularly strong against him, but it's rare a case gets brought before the Council itself that is not deemed guilty."

"So not all cases are brought to them?"

"No. The government officials that are on the lower rungs of the judicial ladder deal with the petty stuff. Only the high priority cases are brought to the Council, usually the cases dealing with crimes against the government itself." Jace shifts suddenly in his chair, making Izzy jump on the other side of him.

But Clary doesn't start. She says, "I see. So they most always say guilty? The Council, that is?"

"Most always," Jace agrees. His eyes flicker around the room below. "The Council is vicious, really. It's not only rare they say someone is innocent but it's also rare they don't give the death penalty. The message is not to mess with the government. It usually comes in loud and clear."

"If they do all this," Clary murmurs, motioning around them, "why is Chaos needed?"

"We take care of the things they can't publically. We get rid of certain problems that would be messy in the public's eye. In certain cases, there are rather intelligent men and women that pop up and slight the Council in some way but cover their tracks. The Council can't even manipulate enough evidence to make it appear halfway plausible that the party in question is guilty. So we go in and make it tidy again. Isn't that right, Isabelle?"

"You really shouldn't be telling her so much, Jace," Izzy grumps. Her long legs are crossed, her foot circling in the air slowly as she inspects her nails. "She's not part of the program."

"Yet." Jace swings his head towards Clary and inspects her carefully. "I think she'll make the cut, Isabelle. You'd be surprised how handy she is with a knife—and a gun. She's a quick learner."

"Mm-hm," Isabelle mutters and then stands with a sigh. "We should go. The Council will be waiting."

"We certainly wouldn't want to keep them waiting," Jace replies and then rises, as well. "Come on, Clary, and see a rapidly corrupting oligarchy at its finest."

"Don't say shit like that, Jace. They'll chop off your head," Izzy says, breezing towards the door of the balcony.

"I don't think that would be a bad way to go," Jace replies. "In fact, there's something rather poetic about it, isn't there? And vintage. As far as dying goes, I'd like to be killed that way. Very dramatic."

Izzy simply rolls her eyes as the group drifts into the hallway.

Clary looks up at Jace and inquires, "If you think the government is corrupt, why do you work for them?"

"I work for Valentine—who works for the Council. I justify it to myself that way. And although the Council is corrupt, they can't really help it. Power does that to people. It's inevitable. Every government has risen and fallen. It's the natural order of things."

"And this is the only job you can find where killing people is acceptable," Izzy interjects wryly.

"That, too," Jace says agreeably.

* * *

The room the Council sits in is massive, with a high, domed ceiling painted with violent murals. The four gray-headed Council members sit behind an elongated, shinny wooden desk, ornate and rich. The walls of the room are bookshelves, filled with multiple tomes of all different shapes and sizes. And despite the size of the area, there are no other chairs or places to sit, making Jace, Izzy, Valentine, Clary, and Sebastian stand.

The man with the bright blue eyes surveys the small group, and then he hones in on Clary. Clary watches him carefully, notices his face never changes—not in the slightest. There is no disapproval or approval. He just looks neutral. "She is not yet part of the program, and therefore shall not be present for this meeting."

Jace opens his mouth immediately, and Clary sees the look of irritation spreading over his face. She quickly interrupts, feeling the weight of blue-eyed man's stare between them. "I'll go," she whispers.

"You don't—" Jace begins.

But Izzy gives him a look, as does Valentine, and Clary simply nods at him in assurance before stealing out the door in which they came in.

She thinks she might have to wait for hours, but in reality, only five minutes pass before the group is exiting the room, too. Jace is the last to leave, and his expression is a live wire.

"What happened?" Clary inquires softly, coming to stand beside him.

"They want us to mount an attack on a rising rebellion," Jace snaps, running a hand over his face. His eyes dart around the almost-empty hallway in a paranoid, trapped way.

"A rebellion?"

"A political group that's being too vocal to suit the Council. They feel it's time to silence them—and discredit them. They want us to plant evidence in the opposition's camp in order to sway public opinion back to the Council. They are asking us to be _liars_ just like they are," Jace growls, his body tense and jittery.

Clary cast her eyes over her shoulder, to Valentine and Sebastian, who talk a few feet away, their heads bowed, their faces careful masks. "And Valentine agreed?"

"Of course he agreed. He's their bitch, just like we all are." Jace's hands shove angrily into his pants pockets. He's furious. "It's not our job. We're supposed to keep the peace, to take justice on those that can escape it. We kill those that are doing evil things—not those that are simply opposing a corrupt system. But it isn't about innocence or not. It's about being fucking liars!"

"Jace, keep it down." Izzy is at his shoulder, glaring at him with her dark brows furrowed. "Do you want Valentine to kill you? You know you've already been pushing at him—and Sebastian. If you keep fucking around, you're going to get yourself pushed off a building."

"Perhaps that'd be a good way to go. Better to be killed trying to be honest than to live being a deceitful bastard," Jace murmurs.

Isabelle rolls her eyes. "Don't be so melodramatic, Jace. You're worse than a girl."

"I don't remember asking you."

Clary quickly interjects before Isabelle can retort. "Why were only a few of your present? Surely Chaos has more agents."

"We do," Isabelle cuts in. "It's just that Jace, Sebastian, and I have the best records. We do our jobs and we do them well—and we're well-behaved."

"Fucking little lapdogs," Jace grumbles under his breath, his eyes focused now over Clary's head, on the quietly discussing Valentine and Sebastian.

"Whatever. The point is, we're the best. And they want to keep this operation quiet. As in, only a select few people know." Isabelle tosses her long, shinny black hair and glares at Jace. "I don't understand why you're so pissed they asked you. You're the favorite—that's the reason why they involved you."

"I'd rather be hated, I think."

"Once again, melodramatic, much?" Isabelle snorts.

"What do you have to do?" Clary asks, her eyes dancing between Izzy and Jace. She sees Jace is still watching Valentine and Sebastian, his eyes narrowed intently.

"Probably just plant some evidence and knock a few people off. Not that big of a deal. I'm sure they've asked us to do the same before, we just didn't know it. You should look at it that way, Jace—they're being honest with us this time. None of those secrets you hate so much," Isabelle says, a bit wryly.

Jace's eyes snap over to her, and he says, conversationally, but with a glaring tension beneath his words, "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, Isabelle."

"Well, we can't always get what we want," Izzy comments.

"How true," Jace sighs, rather sadly, and then he looks down at Clary. "Come on, sweetheart. It's time we leave."

"You can't leave yet. Valentine is going to want to talk logistics—" Izzy begins sharply, her face pinched. Clary suddenly sees the strong resemblance between her and Alec.

"He won't have anything concrete until tomorrow, and I don't want half-assed plans tonight. They don't do me any good." Suddenly, Jace's face shifts. A dangerous smirk appears on his face, like a warning, and his chin jerks up in response to something over Clary's head.

She peeps over her shoulder at Sebastian, who is giving a similar smile to Jace. A show of teeth and testosterone. And then Sebastian's eyes drop to Clary, catch her gaze. His face softens until it is deceptively kind, but Clary sees the ugliness seething underneath, waiting to break-free of its carefully built cage. Sebastian waves at her.

"Motherfucker," Jace comments, rather lightly despite his words and obvious hatred behind them. Then he claps his hands once and says, "Come on, Clary."  
Clary stares a moment longer at Sebastian, looking into his black, endless eyes. She sees _things_ stirring in the obsidian depths, like restless shadows and demons. She swallows against the thorns in her throat and quickly turns to Jace, drifting closer to him as he begins backing up.

"Isabelle, tell Valentine I'll speak with tomorrow," Jace is saying.

"What should I tell him when he asks where you went?"

Jace gives a glistening smile. "Tell him I went to the stars."

* * *

"What is this?" Clary inquires as she climbs off the motorcycle and peers at the large, domed-like building before them, nestled in an orderly, well-groomed park in the heart of the city. All around them, skyscrapers rise to the sky, but here, in the park, there are trees and perfect squares of emerald green grass and beds of flowers.

"This is where I go to collect my thoughts. When I first started the program, they said I needed to be on a bunch of medicines—to keep me stable. But I told them that was a deal-breaker. I refuse to take medicine. They make me all fuzzy." Jace shoves his hands into his pants pockets and struts forward, towards the building, leaving Clary to jog after him. "So they said I needed to at least see a psychiatrist. I said fine to that. Nothing wrong with purging every once in a while. Due to extenuating circumstances, the actual appointments have stopped, but I took something away from the few I had."

"And what was that?" Clary asks as Jace halts in front of the rounded building's front door.

Jace smiles graciously and opens it for her. "I'll show you."

* * *

Jace leads Clary swiftly into an average sized room, without towering ceilings or window-walls or anything special at all. In fact, the room stands out to Clary for its simplicity. The walls are white, as well as the floors, and there are no windows, no pieces of furniture, only empty space.

Jace closes the door behind them, and then smirks a bit at Clary's puzzled expression. "Do you like the stars?"

Clary's eyebrows arch just slightly. "I've never seen them before, really," Clary whispers. Her voice echoes slightly despite how softly she speaks. She doesn't think she likes the room. "I've only seen pictures."

Jace nods once. "I see. I've always been fascinated by the night sky, by constellations and so forth. And then I found this place." He hits a switch, and the room is plunged into darkness, making Clary gasp blindly.

Then she sees blue light flicker on the wall, and Jace is standing there, his long fingers moving rapidly over the touch screen before him. Before Clary can form the words to ask him what he is doing, everything changes.

No longer is the room dark.

It is lit by thousands, millions of pinpricks of light, swirling gold and purple and deep blue in the sky, hovering around Jace and Clary, between them, suspended in the air.

Clary's lips part in wonder, her head spinning as she turns and finds the whole room has been converted into a hologram of the universe. She reaches out and brushes her fingers through The Milky Way, feeling no resistance. "How beautiful," she murmurs in awe, her voice subdued.

"I thought you'd like it." Jace sounds upbeat. And then she sees him lean back towards the touchpad in the wall, sees his fingers dance over it again, and the hologram seems to swell, zooming in. Suddenly, Clary is standing between Mars and the sun, the stars glittering around her, taking her breath.

"This is amazing," she announces softly, craning her neck.

Jace zooms the picture again, until stars only surround them, and they are drifting in purple blackness, the gold winking at them dreamily. Clary is quiet, overcome. Her heart is beating heavily in her chest as her eyes roam over everything, taking it all in, hoping it will never leave her mind as long as she lives.

And then she turns slightly and gasps, finding Jace standing right before her, her nose almost brushing his chest. She tilts her head back and looks at him, at the stars that are passing over his face. "What did this have to do with your appointments?" she asks, gently.

Jace is glancing around them, taking it all in, as well, making pictures in his mind that will never fade. He says, "I was supposed to find a place that would make me happy, at peace. This is it."

Clary's eyes roam over space once more, and suddenly, she feels a bit cold. Isolated. Such a wonderful, beautiful sight but one that is lonely nonetheless. She is very aware of how much _dark_ there is, how much more _black_ than light, than star.

Critically, she cocks her head slightly and peers up at Jace, watching the glow of his skin in the faked starlight. "Are you happy?" she asks curiously.

At this, Jace looks down at her, and she sees surprise flicker over his face, followed by the shadow of confusion. Doubt. His lips part, his brows pulling together for a moment. And then he says, "I don't know."

Clary's drink in his face and the shadows that dance there, the stars in his eyes. She raises her hands, touches his cheeks because she can't help herself. She knows he doesn't like touching. She can sense it in the way he stiffens. But now, he doesn't stiffen. And she doesn't retreat. She simply traces her fingers over his cheekbones, over his jaw, the shape of his lips…

And then he's kissing her, and the darkness of the space around them is not so frightening.

It's only exhilarating.

* * *

**I looked over some of my old author's notes...I make so many typos. It's like I just start blurting out random words that don't even make sense in the sentence. I'm talking like this and then pineapple something weird happens. That occurs because if I look at something or hear something while I'm writing, I'll write that word. So y'all must think I'm completely ignorant. **

**Anyway, as usual, please let me know your favorite line. Y'all probably won't have many from this chapter. It sucked. I'm just sad today.  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey, y'all! I just couldn't leave y'all with nothing but that detestable last chapter. That was an awful chapter. Anyway, this one's a bit better. More background on Jace and Clary and the set up for a big time party. There's a scene coming up in the next few chapters that's been playing in my head like a movie ever since I first started thinking about this story and I can't WAIT for y'all to read it. **

**Also, I have a big paper to write that I've been putting off (I'm a proud procrastinator), so I'm not going to be able to respond to message and reviews tonight. Tomorrow, though, I promise!**

**Oh, but just skimming over the reviews I DO have, I wanted to let y'all know that Abel's fine. It's my oldest cat that went to the vet, not Abel. And my oldest cat is just...well, old. She's got a skin condition in which all the hair around her rear end simply falls off in big tufts and she gets these awful scabs... but y'all definitely don't want to hear about all that. Or the hairballs she gets. Good thing I love her.**

**Also, if y'all want, go follow me on Instagram purrina57. I'm planning on posting random things, but random things that do somehow pertain to my writing. If you're like me and dig that kind of random stuff, follow me please. (:**

**Anyway, y'all have a great night/morning/day!**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

She blinks her eyes open, finds Jace's face before her. She's lying on her side, facing him, and he's mirroring her exactly. Evening sun slants in the window-wall, bathing him in pure gold, making him shimmer like an angel. He takes her breath. She doesn't often see him in the sunlight, in the illumination so like his eyes and hair, and he truly is otherworldly.

He's staring at her silently, a small smile on his lips.

She smiles back shyly, shifts her head on the pillow. He's very close to her, close enough that she's more aware of him than usual. He's showered recently, and he smells strongly of soap and boy, in the best of ways. She can't get enough of the scent. She wants to curl closer to him, to press her nose in the soft material of his t-shirt and let his warmth wash over her as the sunset washes over her back.

But she knows he wouldn't like it. She satisfies herself with the image of him alone. "Have you been awake long?" she inquires.

"An hour or so," he replies. He keeps staring, his eyes moving over every inch of her face. Then his brows pull together just slightly, and he almost sounds uneasy when he says, "You're beautiful."

Heat pools in her cheeks, making her duck her head bashfully. Her heart thuds in her chest, and her stomach feels weightless in the best of ways. "You really think so?" she asks, hesitantly and with a bit of a hopeful smile in her voice.

Jace's small frown of discomfort is wiped clean, and he smiles at her. "Yes, I really think so. No lying, remember?"

"No one's ever…no one's ever told me I'm beautiful before," she admits, a little breathlessly.

Jace's eyebrows arch in a dare. "Well, I just did."

Clary simply smiles, ducking her head further into the pillow.

A sharp ring cuts through the air, and she hears Jace's heavy sigh. "Valentine. Right on cue." And then the mattress shifts with his departure, and Clary surfaces from the pillow as he's leaving the room. And then she rolls over onto her side, surveys the city on fire with the setting sun. She lets the light warm her face, but in all honesty, she can't wait for the night.

* * *

"A party?"

Jace nods with a crinkle in his nose, his arms crossed as he leans against the smooth granite countertops in his kitchen. "We have to go in during the party, like we did with Hodge. Except this time, we're actually supposed to kill someone and make it look like one of the guests."

"So this event is being thrown by the party that is against the Council?" Clary clarifies.

"Correct."

"And this will be a rather high profile function?"

"Also correct."

"Then what guest will be a good scapegoat? They'll all be rich and famous, won't they? No one will buy one of those types killing one of their own, will they?"

"That's the thing, sweetheart. When money and politics are involved, there's bloodshed bound to occur. I don't like the idea of framing someone, but it has to be done."

"You framed a gang for Robert's death," Clary reminds him.

"Ah, but that was a whole gang—no one ever got arrested for that death because the local authorities only _suspected_ the gang but could not prove it. The kind of set-up the Council has asked for tonight is much more specific. It's quite likely they're trying to kill two birds with one stone. Get us to kill the head of the opposition's party and also frame one of their main supporters. If the whole thing didn't disgust me so much, I'd be impressed."

Clary nods once, slowly, and then looks down at herself. She's still dressed in her nightgown. "What kind of party is it?"

"A gala."

"I don't have anything to wear for that," Clary murmurs, her eyebrows pulling together in regret.

"No need to worry about that. Isabelle, apparently, has taken quite the interest in your fashion choices. She dropped this off a few minutes ago for you." Jace holds up a black shopping bag carefully towards her, the strings pinched between his fingers as if diseased.

Clary grabs it from him and peers inside. She sees fluid-looking gold material. "Oh."

"And she also said she'd be over shortly to help you get ready."

"_Oh_."

Jace smirks. "Don't feel much like playing dress-up, do you? I'm just glad it's not me."

Clary sighs softly and then glances up at him with a bit of amused curiosity. "Does she normally try to pretty you up?"

"I'm already pretty, thank you. There's no prep necessary. She does, however, tend to get it in her hair that I need a haircut or need my hair brushed or need my tie tied better. She can be quite overbearing." And then, with a gleeful glint in his eye, he adds, "You'll see."

* * *

Clary _does_ see.

An hour later, her hair is piled elegantly, in purposefully messy curls atop her head. Her eyes are lined with dramatic golden glitter liner that match the shimmer of her liquid-like dress that hugs her tightly, playing up her curves. Her red hair and green eyes start out startlingly in the mirror she peruses herself in.

Izzy stands beside her, her hands on her hips, a smug smile on her face. "I knew I could make you look hot—and your age."

Clary does notice she looks older. Jace's age. More his equal, and she likes that. She likes not feeling like a child. She likes the way the gown dips in the front a bit, curving in a sweetheart neckline that shows a hint of her cleavage. She likes the way the dress is split up the side so that when she walks, her leg will be visible. She likes that she's wearing heels and that she feels _pretty_.

"Thank you," she whispers, running her hands lovingly over the magnificent fabric her dress is made of. It's cool and almost silken. It glitters and shimmers with each move.

"Of course." Izzy tosses her black hair before leaning over to the bathroom counter and gathering her things. She brought a whole suitcase full of make up and hair tools over. Clary thinks she might have used everything inside it, too. "So," the older girl says conversationally, still picking up after herself. "How is Jace?"

Clary's brows pull together in confusion. She sees herself turn perplexed in the mirror. "Pardon?"

"How is Jace?" Izzy repeats. "How is he…mentally?"

"Fine," Clary whispers hesitantly, unsure of what Isabelle is looking for.

The dark headed girl rolls her eyes and meets Clary's gaze in their reflections. "You don't have to sound so paranoid. Jace is obviously rubbing off on you. It was just a question."

"One I don't fully understand the implications behind."

"You really _are_ sounding like Jace now," Izzy chuckles. "He just gets a little crazy sometimes. Crazier than usual. He'll go days and days without eating or anything. But that's usually only when we don't have a job. If he's not working, he's a nutcase."

Clary takes this information in. She watches as her head tilts in the mirror.

"I'm just a little curious about your presence here, actually," Izzy goes on, still working over the massive bathroom counter, cleaning up all the makeup tools she's left scattered on the surface. "He's never lived with a girl before—never even expressed interest in having a relationship with someone. I just…I just wondered if he's been better or worse with you here."

"Well, I couldn't say," Clary says, and her voice is stiff and hard, surprising her. "I don't know what he was like before. I have nothing to compare him to."

"Right." Izzy finishes putting her things away and begins zipping all her bags up. "Jace is just…he's kind of delicate, is all. He might not seem like it, and he isn't delicate in the traditional sense, anyway. He's strong physically. And mentally, he's one of the smartest bastards I know. But…but he had a really fucked up childhood, you know? It messed him up."

"He said his father beat him—gave him all those scars," Clary whispers, drawing a fingertip over the cool granite of the bathroom counter. She watches the trail of heat her touch leaves behind.

"Yeah. His father was an asshole. But his mother is who really screwed him up more than anything." Izzy yanks roughly at a particularly stubborn zipper.

"What did his mother do?" Clary inquires quietly, her eyes flickering a bit nervously to the closed door of the bathroom—a door Jace could at any moment barge in.

"He's never really told me, and I never really asked. But from what I gather, she was kind of crazy herself. She let Jace's father beat her and Jace. She just let it happen. And she kinda…I don't know. I don't really know how to explain it, but she had some kind of weird hold on Jace, apparently. But he didn't tell me this. I just know through Aline."

"Aline?"

"Aline Penhallow. She was Jace's psychiatrist—actually, she's the psychiatrist for all Chaos agents. She's also my cousin and close friend."

"She told you personal information about Jace?" Clary asks, and she can't help the note of disapproval that creeps into her voice.

"I know, I know. It's not really professional, but you don't know what happened. Jace flipped his shit one day, and scared her to death." Isabelle cuts her eyes to Clary, widening them. "They'd been kind of flirting. That's the thing about Jace—he flirts without even realizing it. He's one of the only guys I know that has no clue how hot he is and how attractive he can be to a girl. Anyway, they were flirting and Aline made a move and he just freaked dead out. Broke a window with his fist. Cut himself all to pieces. It was crazy."

Clary frowns slightly, her fingers still moving in delicate circles over the countertop. She raises her eyes to meet Izzy's fully in the mirror's reflection. "Does he always react that way when a girl…when a girl—"

"When a girl makes a pass at him? No. I've made passes at him—not trying to piss you off or anything—and he's never reacted violently. I think he just flipped on Aline because they had been talking about his mother earlier. I think she kind of messed with his mind—made him think she was the only girl he could ever love and so forth. He's got a lot of issues because of her, more so than with his father, really."

Clary swallows the bitter lump in her throat. She feels hatred, burning hot fire rising in her chest, at the thought of Jace's mother. Clary finds herself wishing to kill the woman, to take a knife and stab her with it repeatedly, over and over, until there's blood _everywhere_, like beautiful paint.

"Anyway, if you're curious about it, you can just ask Jace. He'll tell you. He never keeps secrets. It's just getting up the courage to ask about it. I don't really enjoy the idea of hearing all his childhood trauma, as much as I don't enjoy the idea of telling my own childhood trauma. Makes me uncomfortable." Izzy tosses her hair again and stacks her bags of makeup and hair products on top of each other. Then she gives a cool smile to Clary. "You look awesome, if I do say so myself."

Clary smiles, a bit grateful for the subject change. She just says, "Thank you."

But the mystery of Jace's childhood and his relationship with Aline lingers in the back of her mind, an annoying wasp that will not stop buzzing.

* * *

Jace is leaning against the wall, waiting impatiently. His foot taps up and down, and Clary smiles slightly as she emerges from the bathroom, seeing him fidget. He's wearing his usual black slacks and white button, thin black tie, but tonight, for the occasion, he's added a suit jacket and actually combed his hair down into a fashionable, vintage style. It suits him as much as the messy hair does.

She drifts into the living area slowly, suddenly apprehensive about her slightly revealing dress. But then his eyes flicker to her and drop immediately down her body, carefully and hotly, and she sees his face change, sees him darken and shift until she's no longer nervous at all.

Then his eyes meet hers again, and he offers a half smile that curls his mouth crookedly. He pushes off the wall and meanders to her, stopping just shy of touching her. She realizes she's been holding her breath when he reaches up to touch her cheek and she exhales a loud gust of air. He smirks down at her and then dips his head smoothly, his lips right at her ear. "You look sexy," he says simply, but his voice is hot and it tickles her neck, sending thrills down her spine that make her draw up and become breathless.

"Thank you," she manages. "You look handsome."

Jace pulls away from her, smirking again, saying something she can't put into words but she understands. And she smiles back at him, blushing furiously.

"Well, I'm leaving," Izzy announces, sashaying into the living area, breezing past the two of them with her slim arms loaded down with her tools.

"May I borrow your car, Isabelle?" Jace asks in an over-exaggerated polite tone.

"No, you may not. You brought it back on empty last time." Izzy struggles to open the front door with her arms full. "And you drive like a madman. You're better suited on a bike where you can zigzag through stand-still traffic. I'm afraid you're going to just run over someone."

"That doesn't seem so horrible—or something you wouldn't do yourself."

"That's true. It's really the bringing it back on empty thing that bothers me the most. Motherfucker!" Izzy cries, kicking the door.

Jace strolls over and acts as though he'll help her. His hand falls on the doorknob, but he faces her with his brows arched pleadingly, a sweet smile on his face with his eyes looking like the devil's. "Please, Isabelle? I promise I won't bring it back on empty. We can't take my bike, not wearing these clothes."

Isabelle glares, her nose crinkling. Clary thinks she looks very young in that moment, which makes her realize Isabelle, despite the high, young energy she gives off, is quite world-weary. Her play at being young and carefree is just an act, perhaps.

"Fine, you asshole," she snaps. "Now, let me out!"

Jace smiles grandly and opens the door for her in a dramatic fashion. "You're lovely." He pecks her on the cheek.

"Fuck you," she says, marching out of the apartment, but Clary can hear the flattery in her voice.

* * *

Isabelle's car is sleek, silver and low to the ground and all smooth, curved lines.

The interior is posh, all leather and modern equipment. When Jace turns the car on, it growls to life seductively, like a panther. And it moves just as elegantly.

Clary feels her stomach press against her spine as Jace flies the car down the road into the heart of the city. He weaves through traffic easily, maneuvering the car as effortlessly as he does the bike.

She likes watching him smile slightly, like a little boy, when the car revs up high, when she feels like she's weightless and he must, too. She likes watching him shift the gears, the way the muscles in his arm contract as he does so. She likes how he looks as though he belongs in this car, and how she looks like she belongs with him, at least for tonight.

Her fingers skim over her dress again, savoring it. She's never had nice clothes or the luxury of feeling pretty. She's never had a friend to do her makeup and hair. She never had anyone teach her how to be a girl, how to look. Her mother used to try, when she was very little. She remembers Jocelyn playing dress up with her. She remembers Jocelyn letting a young Clary brush her mother's long, deep red hair to her heart's content. Jocelyn would sit for hours, letting Clary do what she wished to the long tresses. Clary remembers, fuzzily, Jocelyn painting her lips and her eyelids and letting Clary watch her, letting Clary dream of the day when she could paint herself, too.

But when that day came, her mother was no longer there to help her, to guide her. Her mother was a selfish creature, and when she met the stepfather, Clary became invisible, a ghost that moved through the house and cleaned it and pulled back hair when she was throwing up and cleaned cuts the stepfather gave. But Jocelyn never looked at Clary again. She never saw her. She forgot about her.

Just as Clary is forgetting about Jocelyn now.

Now, there is nothing but Jace. Jace and this city and this new life and this darkness in the lights of the city. No more worries of Jocelyn's safety. No more tears shed over the stepfather. No more fear.

Clary lets her forehead rest gently on the cool glass of the passenger window. She looks up at the bright lights of the skyscrapers they blur by, letting the images dance against her face, and she decide to forget Jocelyn all together, just like Jocelyn forgot her.

And so she does.

And she never thinks about the mother again.

* * *

**Clary's gonna be a badass. Soon. Very soon.**

**AND I CAN'T FREAKING WAIT!**

**I'm slightly shocked at how enjoyable this story is becoming to write. I haven't had so much fun writing something in a while. **

**Anyway, y'all keep Paul Walker's family in your prayers please. I just can't get him off my mind. It's just so freaking sad. This is my first big "actor" death, I guess. I mean, the only other two deaths that have hit me so hard were Steve Irwin's death and Dick Clark's death. I cried with both of those, too. But Paul Walker's death is just really surreal to me.**


	13. Chapter 13

**AHHHHHHHHH! Hey, everyone! Sorry it has been so very long. If you want a detailed explanation on my absence, then please see Half Truths' latest update. Otherwise, just know that I'm so sorry it's taken me forever. Inspiration is a fickle, fickle thing, y'all. **

**Anyway, here you go. I hate having an odd number chapter and ending on it, but I'm tired. Need rest. So I must stop at 13 tonight. But I'll update tomorrow most likely. I've finally caught up with my inspiration again. The little devil just THOUGHT it could outrun me. **

**Enjoy! And please review! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Everything is gold. The lights, the walls, the decorations, the microphone the woman croons into on the stage. Opulence drips from every tile on the high ceiling, from every inch of the massive ballroom. The people swirling around him look like luxury in their tuxedos and long gowns. And wealth bursts and shimmers in the explosions of golden glitter that sprinkle down in the air.

Jace stands by the drinks, grabs a flute of champagne. The music is slow, seductive, the woman's voice sultry and hypnotic. His eyes scan the golden crowds, looking for one face in particular. And he finds her, all the way across the room.

She's slipping through the blurry faces easily, like smoke. He sees the graceful curve of her leg peeping out from beneath the golden dress with each careful step she takes, and his eyes climb over her body, finding her emerald gaze already searching his out. At first, Jace thinks it's the smokey makeup around her eyes that makes her look so feline. But now he sees, very clearly, that this isn't it at all. It's her. It's a subtle change that has not-so-subtle consequences. He sees it in the way she walks, the slow, confident swing of her hips, the small smile that's curving her lips as their eyes meet.

Jace watches her very closely as she slips easily through the crowd, like silk, and then she's in front of him, her smell of burnt sugar and seductive sweetness filling his nose.

"Would you like to dance or get straight down to business?" he inquires of her. He likes that he doesn't have to look as far down to meet her eyes when she's wearing heels.

"Business," she replies coolly, grabbing his champagne and taking a sip, her sparkling eyes dancing with the beginning glints of mischievousness. "I don't believe this type of crowd would appreciate the kind of display we put on the last time we danced."

Jace feels funny, buzzed and wired, more so than usual. He thinks it must be Clary and this change he sees in her. He sees it like she's shedding a disguise and finally showing her true colors. He can't help but be enamored by it, but he's also frightened by it, by the deeper his admiration is going. He feels as though he's spiraling each time he looks in her eyes, like he's out of control. He's caught between loving and hating this.

He leans down at Clary, suddenly, his lips right at her ear. He drops his voice very low so that none of the nosey men and women drifting around them can overhear him say, halfway joking, "I'm highly aroused by you, Miss Fray."

Clary laughs in her musical way, but he sees a blush creeping over her cheeks as she pushes playfully at his face. "Now is hardly the time, Mr. Wayland." She bats her lashes teasingly at him before smiling again, a sweet smile that's bursting with warmth and truth and so Jace has to look away for a moment.

"You're right," he says, surveying the dancing crowd. He finds the person he's looking for and then smiles, just slightly. "Then it's time to introduce you to some very important players."

* * *

Jace's mind is clear when she's gone. He can focus now. The chatter in his head quiets, settles down, listens to what he's doing. Everything points and spins and fixes, like a laser, and the quiet is such a breath of relief that he almost sighs.

Only two minutes after she's left him does Mr. Gregory finally appear. He's late, which Jace feels is bad manners. But Mr. Gregory is a very busy man. A man that won't be very busy much longer.

"Mr. Herondale!" Mr. Gregory announces as he walks down the sleek hallways. He's wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo, made to emphasize how trim he is, made to make all other forty-year-old, pot-bellied men of the same age jealous. It's Mr. Gregory's boyish smile, his thick reddish brown hair and his warm, ageless aura that does win him the support of most everyone he encounters.

Jace finds it rather ironic that Mr. Gregory with his youthful ideals, the same ideals the Council deemed too wishful and dreamy, is now the biggest threat to the empire the Council has created.

"Is it Willard?" Mr. Gregory inquires with his gently accented voice as he draws nearer.

"William," Jace corrects smoothly. He breathes in the stability of his mind. He loves when there is a plan, one that he can follow, one that calms all the irritation in his brain, soothes it.

"Oh, I apologize," Mr. Gregory says with a brilliant smile, offering his hand.

Jace shakes it and says, "No apologies needed," very politely. And it's that very politeness that makes him fight the urge to vomit. Political and business type things make Jace very sick to his stomach. They are always so very fake, even men with a decently moral track record such as Mr. Gregory. Mr. Gregory still plays by the same disgustingly phony rules as everyone else.

People live their lives in boxes, Jace thinks. Neat little boxes that are gray and uniform. They go to school and they work and they follow routines and then they die. And they always _say_ the right things, _do_ the right things, to keep those boxes from ever being tipped because then they would fall out of those boxes. And where would they go? Would they fall into oblivion? No, they'd simply be forced to live in a different world. But that scares people, Jace thinks. It scares people because they knew they'd mostly be alone, while everyone else was still in their boxes.

They just don't _understand_, though. They wouldn't be completely alone. It just takes some time to wander past all the boxes and find someone else who is wandering, too. And then they could wander _together_.

It's so glaringly _simple_ to Jace.

"Mr. Herondale?"

Jace blinks back into the present, over at Mr. Gregory who has already opened his office door.

"I'm very excited to discuss this generous donation your lovely secretary called me about," Mr. Gregory announces, smiling.

And there it is. A deplorable trait in a rather inoffensive man. Mr. Gregory, like most everyone else, only wants the money.

So Jace has no problem smiling, nodding, and going into the office with Mr. Gregory, all with the express intent of never letting Mr. Gregory again walk out.

* * *

Mr. Verlac is a very wealthy man with a very pretty face. He can have any girl he wants, and the girls certainly want him. He has half the golden room watching him, with his gaggle of girls all vying for his attention. Even the sultry singing blonde at the stage is eyeing him.

He's had these girls before, though. The same type, all the time. The girls that want just sex. Or the girls that want just money. The girls that want to be draped in wealth and cocooned in luxury and would say anything, do anything to get their way.

But there is one girl that stands out to Mr. Verlac.

He sees her across the room. In a ballroom filled with gold, he would have thought a golden dress would not have caught his eye so. But it is the girl in the dress, of course, that does the catching.

She is petite, but curvy. Very, very curvy in a way Mr. Verlac finds most appealing and most unusual, considering it is in high fashion now for a girl to have the likeness of a telephone pole. This curvy girl has red hair, piled elegantly on top of her head. Her eyes are like cat's eyes, green and smokey and mischievous. But at the same time, holding a breath of innocence almost lost completely.

There's something very enticing about the tragedy of corrupted innocence, Mr. Verlac thinks, so he smiles when the girl walks towards him.

He admires the way she walks, the slow swing of her hips, and then she is upon him, cutting through the crowd of girls hovering around him easily.

"Mr. Verlac," the girl says, and her voice is just the mystery her face is. Raspy yet almost childlike. "Mr. Gregory has asked for you in his private office." She pauses, smiles again, just the hint of a smile. Her eyes drift over all the rapt listeners around Mr. Verlac. "He has a very important client he'd like you to meet."

And Mr. Verlac is so enamored by the girl that he never questions her. He does not think to ask her who she is. He does not think to ask her why she is delivering Mr. Gregory's messages instead of Mr. Gregory's own, less attractive assistant. He just follows her into the crowd.

* * *

"This is a mistake. I'm going to _fix_ this city. I'm going to fix the corruption and the injustice and the poverty—"

Mr. Gregory's words are cut off sharply by the bullet lodged in his brain.

Jace watches as the man crumples to the floor, his blood splattered like a lovely painting behind him on the taupe-colored walls.

Inhaling, Jace glances about the office, lowering the smoking gun. The room is huge, rich. Heavy furniture and priceless art. Bookshelves filled with first editions. Jace rolls his eyes at the ridiculousness of Mr. Gregory's last statements. If he wanted to fix poverty, perhaps he should have donated a bit of his wealth instead of using it to by a statue of a rather disturbingly ugly creature, which could either be an old woman or a human sized bird, Jace isn't sure.

He sits on the edge of the massive mahogany desk, eyeing the scattered bits of brain now decorating the rug behind Mr. Gregory's dead body. Jace finds these kinds of sights interesting. Humans seem so powerful when alive but all it takes is a tiny bullet. And that bullet shreds through and tears apart easily.

It's very comforting.

There's a knock on the door.

Jace smiles. "Come in."

And so Mr. Verlac strolls in easily. And just as Jace suspects, he jerks to a halt at the exact place Jace stood to kill Mr. Gregory.

Verlac's eyes go horribly wide as he looks on at the gore. "What the hell—?"

"Catch please." Jace tosses the gun carelessly.

The weapon arcs in the air, spinning over and over, somersaulting, until, out of pure habit alone, Verlac catches it.

His eyes are panicked as he stares down at the gun resting harmlessly in his palms. He looks up at Jace, almost as if expecting some kind of help, some kind of response that can make sense of this situation. But before he can spout off any of the usual things Jace is used to hearing, the mundane questions of "why?" and "who are you?" there are slim, pale arms flashing around Verlac.

Jace watches quietly as the small, gloved hands situate the gun in Verlac's own grip. He cries out, seeing the gun is now very dangerous with his own finger on the trigger. But before he can think to struggle, before he can overpower the small thing behind him, he's got the gun pointed at his own head. And he's pulling the trigger.

With help, of course.

He falls to the ground immediately, and Jace sees Clary. He sees Verlac's blood splattered onto her face, crimson freckles on snow skin. He sees the burning light in her eyes. And she truly is beautiful. Beautiful like a knife or a star.

She smiles over at Jace, excitedly. She is very much alive. He likes seeing her like this, seeing her without her mask. But she's almost too bright to look at this way, unveiled. He almost winces.

"Was that good?" she asks.

"It was lovely, sweetheart." Jace hops off the desk deftly. He drifts over, cocks his head down at the face-first Verlac with the jagged hole oozing blood in the back of his head. "I couldn't have done better myself."

Then he looks back up at her. He sees her smile, her breathless smile, and he's not having a hard time looking at her now. He feels the electricity of her, and it affects him. The buzz begins again in his mind, but it's not the bulb that's about to blow. It's a wonderful buzz, like being high, and his fingers begin to tremble.

And he's suddenly stepping over Verlac's dead body. His lips are crashing into hers, devouring, so very hungry. She doesn't gasp or stiffen. She only returns his fervor, clinging to him as he slams her back into the office wall.

Briefly, he pulls away from her, looks at her and the splattered blood on her face. He smears at it with his thumb, watching the crimson streak, but he can't look long. He _has_ to kiss her again because he needs to. He needs her. And he doesn't like that he needs her at all.

His hands are at her shoulders. He moves them in a little, so he only has to shift his fingers just slightly and then he'd be choking her. It'd be easy, he thinks, as he snakes his tongue into her mouth, tasting her. She wouldn't even have time to be scared. She would just stop breathing, and he'd be free of her before he needed her anymore.

So he moves his fingers, the right way, and now he's holding her throat so all he has to do is squeeze.

Her fingers are in his hair, tugging and pulling, and her tongue is against his. Her sweet breath is all that rushes into his mouth, filling his lungs. And then—

She stops.

She just stops it all and pulls away slightly. Her big, emerald sparkling eyes are looking up into his with this look. And fuck. It's that look. He can't tighten his fingers around her throat. He can't move. He's just stuck staring into those eyes of hers and wondering what it is about the way she looks at him. She just looks so damn sweet. So wild but calm beneath, steady.

The smallest, most gentle smile curves her lips just faintly. And he feels her hand touch his, the one that curves dangerously over the right side of her throat. Her fingers pry his away, and she's moving it down, so very slowly. He feels the silk of her skin gliding across his fingertips as she slides his hand down, over her neck, over her collarbone, and finally to the softness of her breast.

Her eyes flicker between his, not searching because she's already found what she wanted. She's just looking.

And then she leans into him, her parted lips brushing over his. They share breath again, but she doesn't kiss him. Just grazes her nose against his own.

It's too much.

It makes Jace's skin prickle uncomfortably, and he's got a heavy weight on his chest, all of a sudden. And he can't fucking _breathe_. So he's jerking away from her, trying to pull in some air.

She's a bit shocked. He can see it in her face, but he doesn't care. He just scrubs his hands into his hair frantically and looks around the office again. It's so messy. There's so much fucking blood. It's making him want to clean, but that's not what he needs to do. He needs to leave.

They need to leave.

"We need to leave," he rushes out.

"Okay," she replies, smoothing out the front of her dress. He can see her hands shaking. "Is, um, everything done?"

"Yes," Jace announces quickly and he's stepping over Verlac's body again and almost running for the door. The frantic symphony of his mind is back in full force now. His temples burn like fire. Fire in the brain. That was the title of a book he once read, but he can't recall what it was about…

Why can't he remember? He can remember the cover but not the content. What does that mean? He sees the book, now. The title, the font. He's got a photographic memory so why can't he remember the fucking words inside—

"Jace?"

Everything stops and he looks over at Clary, at her carefully hidden expression. She's not as bright anymore. He can breathe again.

"Right," he says, and he nods, getting himself back together. "We need to leave."

So they do.

* * *

**Hm. Well, y'all remember the drill. Please let me know your favorite line/lines in this chapter (: **

**As for Verlac being mentioned, it's not Sebastian, as he's a different character. Sebastian in this story is Sebastian Morgenstern because he's Valentine's kid. Verlac was just the last name I used for the guy that bit it in this chapter. **

**I felt like this chapter was a bit confusing, it being told mostly in Jace's POV (because Jace is obviously a confusing guy), so let me know if you have any questions about the plot points!**

**Happy New Year, y'all! I hope it's a great one! (:**

**Oh, wait. One more thing. Oops. I'm going to go through my reviews for Chaos, but I don't remember the last person I responded to. So I'm probably just (this one time) going to respond to people that asked direct questions or something. Not everyone. I'm sorry. I'm just super tired. But starting with this new chapter, I'll start responding to everyone again! (:**


	14. Chapter 14

**So sleepy! Need sleep! Will talk with y'all tomorrow! GOOD NIGHT!**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Clary traces the dots of crimson on her dress with her index finger carefully. It reminds her of when she was little and her daddy would bring her home coloring books because she did very much like to color. The books always had Connect-the-dots in them. She enjoyed those, too.

"Would you mind terribly if we made a stop somewhere?" Jace asks her, suddenly, but his voice is once again calm and smooth, the voice she's quickly gotten as used to as her own.

She glances over at him in the car. The city lights flash over his face in bursts of vibrant orange and pink and cool blue. His face is unlined with worry, his body relaxed in the driver's seat. The boy she saw ten minutes ago, the one pulling at his hair and shaking with some unknown fear—he's completely locked away again.

Clary tilts her head. "No, of course not."

"You're delightfully accommodating, sweetheart," he says.

Clary simply smiles, a small tilt of her lips as she leans her head back, rests it against the seat. Her head rolls and she finds herself looking out the window, watching the soaring buildings touch the obsidian sky, their lights flashing hopelessly into the thick, dark clouds of night.

And then the car slows, and Clary is staring up at a towering, Gothic church. It is old and heavy, a contrast to the posh sleekness of the surrounding buildings. Clary presses forward, her breath fogging the glass slightly as her eyes trace the sharp cuts and curves of the church.

"Is this the stop?" Clary inquires, glancing over at Jace.

He takes the keys out of the car, gives a smile. "Yes. I have to go pray for my sins." He grabs the car door handle. "Why don't you stay here? I'd hate for you to frighten the priests with the blood splattered all over you."

Clary looks down at herself, in surprise, almost, because she forgot just how many of those crimson dots there were on her. She's covered, really, in red. "Oh," is all she says.

"You don't mind, do you?" Jace presses, cocking his head.

"No, of course not."

"You're a darling." Jace grins at her, a flash of white teeth in the flashing lights of the city outside the car, and she smiles back before he's gone.

She watches him walk around the car, his confident, lilting walk that she's come to love very much, and her eyes follow him all the way up the steps until he disappears into the massive double doors leading into the church.

Curiously, she debates on what he might be doing in there. Praying, perhaps. Or asking forgiveness for his sins. She wonders if he can even ask forgiveness. She wonders lots of things about Jace.

She feels as though she knows him sometimes, as though she has him completely figured out.

And then, on occasions such as this and the kiss they shared only a half hour ago, she doesn't understand him at all. He's very…scrambled, she thinks. All over the place.

He's beautifully chaotic, she decides. And this is what she likes about him the most.

* * *

Jace sits quietly in the darkened church. It's beautiful in here with its tall ceilings and columns and stained glass. Everything is elegant and old and detailed. Candles flicker softly around him, warming the air, giving it a golden glow. He sits and stares up at Jesus on the cross. He stares for a very long time, his mind wonderfully quiet.

In fact, it is so quiet, that he has no thoughts. Only emptiness. It is a welcome change, but it also frightens him, too. Because when he wakes from it, he finds he can't recall how long he's sat, without a thought in his mind. It's almost as if he didn't exist, in those past, unknown minutes.

_What's better_, Jace muses, _to have your mind bursting with thoughts so loud you can't think or to have only silence and wonder if you're even alive?_

Jace's eyes flicker over to the confessional booth. It's been a while. But he suspects his confessions of murder and torture frighten the priests, so he's stopped. He does want to talk to someone, though. So he turns back to Jesus and tries praying again. He asks to not get lost. He asks for focus. He asks for guidance.

And then he sits some more, his thoughts wandering aimlessly.

He hears the church doors open behind him, but he thinks nothing of it. Not until he feel someone sit silently beside him. Curiously, he glances over. Finds Clary, although he's not surprised. She's wearing a coat she most likely found in the backseat of Izzy's car. The black trench is wrapped tightly around her, hiding all traces of her bloodied dress.

Clary doesn't look at him, only straight ahead, at Jesus. And Jace watches her as she closes her eyes and presses her hands together, holds them under her chin. She bows her head. And she stays like this for the longest time, until Jace's wondering mind is getting the best of him.

Then she drops her hands. Her emerald green eyes open and she finally casts them over to Jace. He gets caught in her gaze helplessly.

"What did you pray for?" he inquires, softly, afraid to break the quiet of the church.

Clary simply smiles, that tiny smile he's beginning to admire very much. She looks a bit impish, a bit shy, a bit wonderful. She looks back at Jesus.

Jace can't stand it, can't stand the intoxicating presence of her, and he leans into her shoulder suddenly, puts his lips at her ear. "You have a lot of secrets, don't you, Clary Fray?"

She smiles a little, turns her head. Her nose brushes against his, and her eyes drop down, maddeningly hidden from him by her lashes. "Everyone has secrets, Jace. Even you, as much as you detest them."

She's right, of course.

He pulls back from her slightly, grabs her chin roughly, jerks her head up, so he can see into her eyes again. She's glowing beneath his touch.

He says, "I don't want to have secrets."

"Then give them away," she replies, arching her brows.

A flash of a smile crosses Jace's lips. "To whom, may I inquire? You?" He nips at her bottom lip playfully.

She blushes and quickly separates herself from him, scooting further down the pew they sit on. "Not in church, darling," she chastises, primly.

"You make me forget my manners, I'm afraid."

Clary fusses with her falling hair a moment, leaving him in suspense. Finally, though, she says, "You can give your secrets to whomever you like, of course. But I'd very much like if you found me worthy of them."

"I find you most worthy, sweetheart." Jace smirks at her faint rose blush making yet another appearance. He slides across the pew, closer to her again. "And what about your secrets?"

"They aren't up for sell quite yet." She gives him a sideways look. He watches as her lips curve upwards.

A wave of lust, of want, crashes over him, but he's aware of Jesus' eyes upon them. He tries to behave.

"Would you like to go home now?" he inquires softly.

Clary's eyes find his again, and now they are completely gentle, not playful. She smiles. "Yes, please."

* * *

Clary immerses herself in the warm water completely.

She holds her breath as long as she can until, finally, she's forced up to the surface again. She regards the thick bubbles in the tub, and she smiles grandly. A real bubble bath. She hasn't had one since she was very young. It's a luxury that thrills her. The heady smell of sunflowers wafts up from the white foam, and she leans back in the bath, relaxing in complete comfort.

She lifts her right leg until her toes appear out of the froth. She twirls her foot a few times, watching the motion with a tiny smile, and then she's flinging the bubbles up in the air with her arms, watching as they drift back down like snowflakes.

Glancing around the modern bathroom, she feels as though she's bathing in opulence, as if the water she's submerged in is liquid gold. She's having a hard time taking a full, deep breath. She's too excited.

But then the bathroom door is being flung open, and horrified, Clary dunks down as far as she can in the tub, only her eyes and nose above water.

Jace walks in, looks over at her. She checks to make sure the bubbles are covering her completely. They are, but she feels heat rising on her cheeks, almost unbearably hot.

"Enjoying your bath?" he inquires, simply, as if it is entirely proper for him to be in here. He is looking down, taking off his shoes with his feet.

"Yes," Clary says slowly. "I was. Until I was rudely interrupted."

Jace's grin is slow and easy, slipping across his lips. He continues to look down as he takes his socks off. "I see you've gotten quite sassy. I'm entirely turned on by it."

"Jace," Clary says, half rebuking, half amused. "I'm…well, I'm taking a _bath_."

He looks up, looks at her from beneath his lashes as he bends down to retrieve his socks. Another grin slides across his features. "I'm very aware."

"I see you don't view bath time as a private event."

"No, not at all." Jace straightens and unties his tie carefully. "In fact, I think bath time is the perfect opportunity for socializing."

Clary lets out an explosion of breath, fluttering the strands of hair that have fallen from her up-do. "Jace, please. I don't feel entirely comfortable with you being in here—"

"Why?" he asks, genuinely curious. He's unbuttoning his dress shirt now, looking at her with his head cocked. "I can't see anything—not with all those bubbles. My God. Have you used up the whole bottle of Isabelle's favorite bubble bath? She's going to be quite put out with you."

"I'll blame it on you," Clary tells him.

Jace exhales a quick laugh. "An excellent strategy." He shrugs out of his button down, leaving him in only a white t-shirt. Clary watches in quiet, excited horror as he reaches for the bottom hem of the shirt and yanks it over his head.

She dips lower in the water, her eyes taking in the beautiful expanse of his chest and stomach. She doesn't think she could ever tire of seeing him without a shirt, not even with all his scars. In fact, the scars make him even more beautiful. They remind her of how unique he is, how there is most definitely, unequivocally only one Jace in the world.

"What are you doing?" she asks, feeling flushed again.

"I'm taking a shower." He undoes his belt as he walks behind her, towards the shower. She hears the door open, hears the water start. "If you don't mind."

Clary's mouth is dry. She feels her heart pounding, hard, even in her fingertips. Her skin crawls with nerves and excitement. She feels electric.

Then Jace is back in her line of view, sitting on the edge of the tub. He smirks down at her, reaches out, brushes a few strands of her wet hair off her face. "I find myself disturbingly curious about you, Clary." He leans in, as if he'll kiss her, but he simply teases his lips over hers, until she's breathing loudly. His hand cups her cheek. "You're a bit of a mystery, aren't you?"

"Not really," she says, shakily, her eyes drifting shut as she feels his lips brush over her other cheek, to her ear.

"Well, you are to me." His breath is hotter that the air around her, the water she's sitting in. It makes her shiver.

Clary, suddenly very aware that she is completely unclothed beneath the safety of the bubbles, tries to find something else to say, to perhaps distract him. Or perhaps it's to distract her. Because she is feeling very dizzy and overwhelmed, much too hot. Too hot.

"Do you think Hodge was funding Mr. Gregory?" she rushes out, clenching her eyes shut as she feels his hand drop, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw.

Jace exhales against her neck. Kisses her once. "No. I glanced over his things, saw nothing suspect. I don't believe our dearly departed Mr. Gregory would have risked tarnishing his image to deal with a drug lord."

Clary swallows thickly. "So whom do you think Hodge was giving money to?"

"That's the million dollar question." Jace's fingers trace down her pounding pulse. He's just barely touching her, skimming her skin, but she feels it resoundingly through her body. She's a bit shaky—jerky, almost. On edge. She feels as though electricity is crackling in her body, building and building, preparing to explode.

"Jace," she gasps quietly when his hand drops suddenly and he's cupping her breast beneath the water.

His other hand comes up, touches her shoulder gently before placing a kiss there. "What?" he asks softly.

"Your…your shower water will get cold," she rushes out.

His smile can be felt against her skin. He doesn't comment, only allows his hand to drop even lower. He touches her stomach lightly, and his lips are at her ear again. "I want you," he says lowly.

"Jace, please," Clary says, almost in panic.

But he's not listening. Her voice is too quiet. She wonders if he even heard her.

His hand runs down her leg, beneath the water. She feels her knees part, instinctually. She's shivering, now, her whole body vibrating. She doesn't know if it's with nerves or something else.

"You're just so tempting. I don't mean to be so unapologetically forward, you have to understand. It's just that you're driving me to this." Jace's hand skims up her inner thigh. His touch is as silky as the water.

Clary's eyes are clenched shut. She's feeling breathless, as if a heavy weight is on her chest. The feeling is vaguely familiar. The same feeling she had in the club, when they had been dancing. "Jace," she whispers, her head tilting back, her hands going out, gripping the edges of the tub. She thinks she must be surrendering.

But Jace's hand is suddenly gone. And he's kissing her temple chastely, standing up. Clary's eyes snap open and go straight to him.

"My water's getting cold," he explains, offering her a half cute, half irritating grin as he reaches for the fly of his pants.

Clary isn't sure what kind of face she must be making, a relieved one, an angered one, or an unfulfilled on. Perhaps all three.

And then he's jerking down his pants, and she whips her head away, her cheeks burning, at first in embarrassment and then in anger as she hears him laughing.

"You're…you're a-atrocious," she manages, her voice stuttering with her displeasure.

He just laughs harder and she hears him get into the shower.

And then, as her bathwater cools, she sinks down into again, hoping it will extinguish the fire on her cheeks.

She stays with her head turned for the next twenty minutes, until Jace is dried off and dressed and exited from the bathroom.

Her hands are complete prunes by the time she can get out.

* * *

**Please tell me your favorite line from the above chapter.**

**Also, one more thing before I pass out, if you like Twilight, please check out a new story I started. It's Twilight fanfiction. I won't be devoting tons of time to it, so don't fret. But I would like some critiques on what y'all think about my writing when I'm writing in a completely human, totally non-supernatural, fantastical world. Thanks, y'all!**

***passes out***


	15. Chapter 15

**Hey, y'all! How is everyone? Let me know. Here's another chapter-focusing on character development. The plot in this story is going to take a back seat for a while, only because the story line (as far as Hodge and the Council and the drug money, etc.) is actually kind of secondary to Jace and Clary's own story. I want to focus mostly on them and their past and their developing relationship. If you're not into that, come back a few chapters later (:**

**Enjoy!  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Clary dances to _Wild, Wild Young Men_, kicking and spinning and swinging her body around lithely until her hair is already starting to dry from her bath. When the song finally ends, she giggles breathlessly, pushing the mess of tangled, half-damp locks out of her face and glancing over at Jace, who stands behind the kitchen counter, unscrewing a water bottle cap and smirking at her uncharacteristic display.

Clary feels her cheeks turn slightly pink as her heartbeat slows again. She drifts over to the nice record player and stops it before a new song comes on. Then she glances over Jace's music collection again, which she finds fairly sparse. Somehow, it doesn't surprise her. She can't imagine Jace sitting around, listening to music. She can't image him being still long enough.

Barefoot and dressed in one of Jace's baggy white undershirts, she drifts over to the window-wall. Her head rests against the cool glass. She stares down at the sparkling city below. Dawn will come soon but the remnants of the nightlife refuse to die yet. There are still parties raging on, still drunken girls holding their heels between clammy fingers that walk zigzagging lines to new places to find more drinks.

Out of the blue, Clary begins a story. She says, "When I was a child, I wanted to be a dancer. A ballerina, specifically." A fond, nostalgic smile tilts her lips at the memories. Flashes of herself trying to pirouette dance beneath her eyelids with each blink. "All the time I used to practice trying to get my toes to point like they do in the pictures, in the photographs. I used to practice for hours and hours, until I was absolutely sore. And it always confounded me why I couldn't get my toes to do the same. And then, as I got older, I realized real ballerinas had those special shoes to make their feet so pointy.

"I remember feeling so cheated, so horrified. I felt like I had been lied to, you know." Clary rubs briefly at her temple, shuts her eyes. The memories are hazy and abstract, but she feels them and that's all she needs to remember. "I used to have lots of dreams when I was little. I used to have all these…thoughts. Bright thoughts. Bright _things_ floating around in my mind."

There's a brief silence, pause.

And then Jace's voice is quiet but deeply curious. "And now?"

"Well, I try to have those bright things." Clary pushes herself from the window and turns to face Jace, to find him watching her with his sun-eyes. "But it gets harder to find them. And they're always phony, planted—no longer organic. The older you get, the faster _things_ fade. Bright things dull and slip through your fingers. You don't even realize what's happened until they are gone and you are just…"

"Empty?"

"Yeah. Empty." Clary tilts her head at him. "Did you have any childhood dreams?"

He gives a brief smile as he ambles over to the couch and sprawls out in it. "No. I never could quite focus long enough to have a clear dream."

"I don't believe you," she accuses with a small smile. Musically, she dances over to him. "Every child has dreams."

Jace looks up at her. "I didn't."

She arches her brows doubtfully, and he gives her a sudden, devious smirk before grabbing her. She gasps and laughs all at once as he jerks her onto his lap. Breathlessly, she loops her arms around his neck, and tucks her head beneath his chin. She curls as close to him as she can, almost like what she used to do with her daddy. But it's much different with Jace.

It's comforting, but it's exhilarating, too, like being in a constant free fall. Her heart pounds too quickly, her skin hums too loudly for her to ever fall asleep like this, like she did in her father's arms.

Jace is a bit stiff at first. She's quite sure he's not accustomed to this, and she thinks he might push her away. But he doesn't. He simply rests his arms around her, a bit awkwardly, but she appreciates the effort.

"Can I ask you a question?" she whispers, shutting her eyes.

"Of course."

There are many things she wants to ask in this moment. She decides to pick between them, go for the one she thinks of first. Slowly, she pulls her head away from his chest so she can look at him. Gently, her hands come up and play with the mess of his short hair. She asks, while she watches her fingers twist in the golden locks, "You always keep your hair disheveled. Why?"

"I like disheveled things. I find them preferable to…un-disheveled things." Jace reaches up, removes her hands from his hair swiftly, but grins at her slightly.

She says, "I feel there's a reason to it."

"Do you, now?" Jace asks, smirking.

"Yes." Clary meets his eyes clearly. She doesn't want to press him, so she doesn't ask any further questions. She just waits. And hopes he gives her an answer.

And he finally does.

Sighing, he glances away from her, his smirk fading. "I have curly hair. When I was little, I wore it a bit longer than it is now, so it was just a mess of all these curls, right? Well, my mother very much liked my hair. She always bragged about it to her friends, and they would all kind of gather around me, touching my hair and playing with it. It was a source of great pride for my mother. So when I turned twelve, I shaved my head—which sent her into a tailspin. She forbid me from ever cutting it so short again." Jace shifts slightly beneath Clary. "I must admit the buzz cut did not particularly flatter me. So I only cut this short now. As kind of a metaphorical screw you to my beloved mother."

"Do you wish your mother was dead?" Clary asks, resting her head on his chest again. She closes her eyes, lets the soothing rumble of his voice in his chest wash over her.

"Every day."

"Why don't you go kill her?"

Jace is quiet for a moment, so long she wonders if he'll ever answer her. He won't be lying if he doesn't say anything, she thinks. But then, finally, he simply replies, "I don't do freelance."

* * *

The city lights flash at him in his dream, as he drives the car. Red. Pink. Green. Blue. Yellow. Over and over again, stinging his eyes, making his temples ache. He grips the steering wheel harder because he won't go if he's got something to hold onto. He won't disappear into his memories, like he's afraid he might sometimes.

But it happens anyway.

He gets sucked in. The flashing lights suddenly become the lights of the Christmas tree he had when he was ten. He sees it now, sees it so absolutely clearly that he wonders if it isn't really happening, if he isn't really there—that his adult life is just a dream his child's mind made to escape.

He's lying under the tree, on his back, looking up into the branches and the lights. The tree is fake, of course, but he images it smells like pine, anyway. He has a very active imagination.

In the hall, he hears his mother yelling at his father. Daddy's drunk again, so Mommy won't let him in the apartment. Daddy hits things when he's drunk, more so than usual. He hits Mommy. He hits Jace. So she says she's not letting him in, that she's going to leave him.

Jace gets excited whenever he hears her say that, but he knows it won't come true. But still, he thinks maybe it might. He has a very active imagination.

Then the door is being slammed. Jace hears Mommy walk into the living room, hears her heels clack-clack-clacking on the floor.

She says, "Honey, come out from there."

He doesn't, though. He doesn't want to. Under the tree, with all the lights, he's very happy. He imagines maybe he's dead or something. Maybe he's dead and in heaven. Something like that. He has a very active imagination—that's what the teachers at school say, the school he went to before Mommy made him stop going. The teachers asked too many question about his black eyes and his broken arms.

"Jace!" Mommy screeches.

It's an unpleasant sound, nails scraping down chalkboards, cats screaming outside his bedroom window at night, so he climbs out from under the tree like she asks.

She's standing there, looking very beautiful, he thinks, if it weren't for the angry bruise-purple mark on her cheekbone, the one Daddy left last week. She says, "Come here," and motions for him.

So he gets up dutifully and walks over.

Her hands come down, engulfing his cheeks. She's always touching him. "You've got needles in your hair," she says, very softly, and she smiles a little as she brushes them out of his curls. "You know much I love your hair, don't you?"

He nods silently.

"It's just lovely." She strokes his curls gently, with this very sad look on her face as she does so, a distant look.

"Why are you sad, Mommy?" he asks her. He almost says Mom, but she doesn't like it when he calls her Mom. She likes it when he calls her Mommy. So that's what he does, to make her happy.

"I'm not sad, baby." She kneels down, so that they are eye-level. Her hands move down to rest over his cheeks again. Her delicate, white wrists smell like perfume. It makes his nose itch, but he doesn't wrinkle it. He doesn't like hurting Mommy's feelings. "Do you love me, Jace?" she asks him.

"Yes, ma'am."

"How much?" Her eyes are a bit watery, but there is an angry pucker between her light brows.

"A whole lot," he tells her.

"More than anyone in the world, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I want to hear you say it, please."

"I love you more than anyone in the world," he parrots back to her, but he isn't sure he loves her much at all. Maybe he just doesn't _like _her. But she tells him to love her all the time so he says he loves her. He isn't sure about it, though.

"You're my sweet boy." She strokes his cheek, her nails a little sharp against his skin. She leans in, kisses his nose. "You'll always love Mommy, won't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, trying not to lean away from her. Her perfume is too strong. It is making his head hurt.

"You know I'd just die without you," she whispers, kissing his cheek then.

"I know, Mommy." His skin is shivering, like thousands of scary whispers are dancing over his arms and his legs and the back of his neck. He can't stand it.

"My sweet boy," she says and then kisses him on the lips. "My sweet boy," she repeats, her words whispered into his mouth, down his throat. And then she's saying, "LOOK AT HIS HAIR!" and the scene is different.

All he can see are the faces of Mommy's friends, all of them women, blurring around him. They all look different but the same, their features watery and overwhelming in his eyes. The smell of alcohol wafts from their cups, making Jace sick feeling.

"He's so pretty," one of the women croons and reaches out, touches his cheek.

"I love his hair. It's so _gold_."

"He looks like an angel, Celeste. A beautiful little angel."

"I wish my boy looked like him," hiccups one woman.

"I'm sure," Mommy says smugly. Her face is very clear to him, standing out in stark contrast to the others'. "He's just my little angel."

He feels hands all over him, nails scraping at his chin, fingers brushing through his curls, pressure on his shoulders. The smell of alcohol and perfume is overwhelming. He's suffocating in it all. He wants to scream. He wants to run away.

He wants them all to stop. He wants them all to stop _being_. To stop breathing. To stop existing.

He wants to kill them.

* * *

Jace slams upright in the bed, the sheets tangled around him. He's drenched in sweat with the smell of eight different perfumes still lingering sickeningly in his nose. He breathes hard, gulping in the clean air of his apartment.

He glances around, comforted by all the openness, by the glass that allows him a lovely view of the setting sun. He's not surrounded now. He's okay.

"Okay," he mutters to himself. "I'm okay."

And then something stirs beside him.

Horrified, he glances down, his arm drawing back, ready to strike, but then he sees the red hair splashed over the silken pillows, he sees the beautiful sleeping face of her, and he lowers his arm carefully, sighing in relief.

She is lying on her stomach, her face turned towards him. A small pucker has formed between her brows, her pretty lips pursing up in discontent. She whispers something quietly, something that almost sounds like, "No," and Jace sees his hand moving, brushing across her cheek.

Her body instantly relaxes, which amazes him, confounds him.

He jerks his hand back quickly. He doesn't know why he did it, touched her like that. He frightens himself sometimes with such.

* * *

**Okay. Y'all know the drill. Favorite lines, please. (:**

**Also, I want to address a comment someone left as a guest on here. They said that their parents were going through a divorce and that reading was an escape for them. I'm so honored that my stories maybe had a small positive impact on you, or at least allowed you a few moments of escape. I wish I could private message you this, and I hope it doesn't offend you in any way that I posted this for all to see! Please feel free to message me if you ever need to talk! And that goes for anyone reading this! I would love to help anyone! And I sure purge enough of my own crap to y'all so y'all should feel comfortable talking back to me.**

**Okay. Enough of the cheesy.**

**One more thing before I go. I mentioned a Twilight fanfiction last night, I think. I just started it and would love for y'all to check it out if you like Twilight. It's going to be about the Vietnam War and it's effects. It's all human, and I just wanted to explore only people's emotional ties and so forth. It's a big leap for me. I'm not sure if I can do it, so if y'all feel like it, drop in and see how I'm doing. Please! (:**


	16. Chapter 16

**Lots of things here, y'all. **

**1. This chapter involves drug use. I don't approve of drugs at all. But for the story, it's necessary. If it offends you, skip this chapter, please. Once again, I DO NOT APPROVE DRUG USE. Like at all. I have a strong aversion to it for personal reasons. Oh, and please don't inquire as to exactly what drug it is. It's an alternate universe. Make up a name for it, if you'd like! I'd love to hear some of the crazy things y'all could come up with! (;**

**2. I have lots of people to respond to, review-wise and private messaging wise. It's very late where I am, and I have to get up at a decent hour tomorrow (yikes), so please, please, please forgive me for not responding. Tomorrow. I PROMISE. Forgive me, y'all! I hate not responding as quickly as I can, but sigh. Such is life.**

**3. Please ignore the copious amounts of typos I fear are not only in the story but in this author's note, as well. As I said, it's late here. **

**4. Please listen to this song 2Wicky by Hooverphonic if you want to hear what I was listening to writing this chapter. Very trippy. AND I LIKE IT.**

**5. Most importantly of all, someone else has passed away. My favorite group of all time, the Everly Brothers, has lost one of its members. Phil Everly died Friday, due to COPD. He was 74. I am sick. Because I literally was OBSESSED with the Everly Brothers, like probably a bit too much. I read all these biographies about them and listened to all their music and I'm just literally so sad about it. Why I mention this is so that y'all can pray for his family. From all that I read and heard, he was so very close with his children and grandkids, and I'm sure they are having a hard time. If you don't know who the Everly Brothers are, PLEASE go check them out on Youtube. They are the best ever. RIP Phil.**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Clary wakes with the absolute knowledge that Jace is not beside her. She can feel his absence even before her hand crawls slowly over the silken sheets and finds them cold. Her eyes crack open, and she glances around the city-lit bedroom. The sky outside is just now turning dark, the life below slowly starting to pulse.

She sits up in the massive bed, looks at the tangled sheets on Jace's side. Her eyes quickly dance around the room, but she knows he's not here. She can feel that, too.

Quietly, she climbs out of bed and pads into the living room, where she finds him sprawled on the couch. He's still wearing his pajama pants, and his hair is messier than usual, sticking up around his head wildly.

And then Clary sees the small white cigarette between his fingers. She watches him as he appraises the city and raises the cigarette to his lips, takes a long drag from it, his cheeks hollowing. But he doesn't blow out any smoke, not for a long time. And when he does, Clary smells it.

It doesn't smell ashy and bitter, though, not like the stepfather's cigarettes. This smells sweet, like flowers or honey. It's a smell that makes her nose itch.

"What are you doing?" she asks softly, tilting her head.

Jace glances up at her, his eyes foggy but still beautiful, strangely sleepy and potent. He exhales a cloud of that strange smelling smoke and gracefully, slowly, rises to his feet. He ambles across the living room floor, towards her. His movements are delayed, jerky, but she's still fascinated by the way he moves, with the natural confidence and ease he possesses.

His eyes are on hers as he draws near, so near she tilts her head back to look up at him. He smells strongly of his cigarette and smells strongly of _him_, too. Clary feels herself float off the floor, an inch or so.

"Wanna try?" he asks quietly, lifting the cigarette briefly. Smoke billows around them, heady and thick and muting.

"What is it?" Clary inquires.

Jace's smile is a slow curve over his lips. He leans down towards her, his face deliciously close, and says, "Try it."

But before Clary can make a move to grab the strange cigarette, Jace is bringing it to his own lips. She watches as he puts the white stick in his mouth and takes a deep drag from it, his fire-hot, dizzily swirling eyes never leaving hers. And then he's removing the cigarette from between his lips and grabbing the back of her neck roughly and suddenly with his free hand.

She gasps just as his mouth slams down, hard, against hers. He parts her lips, and there's smoke rushing into her throat, down into her lungs, burning. Jace pulls away and watches her with a faint smile as she coughs a little, her eyes watering. Gray clouds puff from between her lips as she hacks.

And then, through watery eyes, she looks back up at him. And he raises the cigarette, holds it towards her a little. So she takes it from him willingly. There's something in her that's dazed and slow and peaceful, and she likes it. So she puts the cigarette between her lips and takes a big drag just like Jace did, and when she goes to exhale the smoke, his index finger swiftly comes up, presses gently against her mouth. He grins slightly at her, his eyes flickering down to the softness of her lips against his finger as she holds the smoke deep within her lungs.

She's floating higher down, feeling strangely vague. She wonders if this is real, if she's really standing here, if anything is _here_.

Jace takes away his finger, and she stares up at him through her lashes, but not shyly, as she lets the smoke loose. It trails from her lips outward, trailing and swirling upward, and Clary looks, watches it rise to the ceiling, and she follows after it.

* * *

She's freezing.

Shivering and teeth chattering, she looks down at her feet, watches in fascination as her toes curl dangerously over the ledge of the roof. The city throbs below her, abuzz with nightlife. The lights from this high up all blur together, as to the rich cars and the fancy clothes and people below. The whole world is in a haze, a beautiful, smudged haze with pinpricks of vibrant light winking at her through the fog.

She shudders as a gust of icy wind rips at her, cuts straight through her flimsy, silken nightgown. She wraps her arms around her waist and smiles as she leans forward the slightest bit, so she can look all the way down Jace's apartment building, to the concrete eighty stories below.

"You could fall," Jace tells her, coming to stand behind her.

"I know," she replies, exhilarated.

Jace's hands come up to her and are heavenly hot against her hips. He tilts his head, and his breath is fire on the skin of her neck. "I could push you."

Clary smiles and bites her lip. "Or I could jump," she whispers and leans forward suddenly. Her mind is alive. She remembers her dreams of flying. This high up, she is flying. The wind is everywhere around her. And she wonders if she really would die if she jumped. Maybe she could fly. At least for a few moments. So she tilts towards the edge even more, more and more and more until her heart is in her throat and electricity is constantly zinging up her spin, making her stiff and free and she goes forward—

Before she can take the plunge, Jace's hot hands are jerking her back suddenly. He's spinning her in his hold and his lips are attacking hers, and she's attacking him back, just as rough as he is, because she decides she likes that. She likes that he doesn't treat her like a delicate little child because she's not. And she always hated feeling like that, every time the stepfather would hit her and bruise her and the teacher would give pity-eyes to the purple-black marks she sported.

Clary is suddenly on the ground, and she wonders how she even got up to the roof as Jace crawls on top of her, blanketing her in the fiery heat of his body. Did she fly up to the roof? She feels like she's flying now.

Jace bites her bottom lip, hard enough to puncture the skin, and she smiles when he groans, when he tastes the metallic heat of her blood in his mouth. Her hands come up, dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, and she's surprised when she just feels his skin. He's shirtless, only in his pajama pants. And she's only in her gown. And it's so cold out, but neither of them care.

His lips are dragged away from hers, skimming down her chin, over her throat. Clary eyes drift shut for a moment and she cranes her head back, her body writhing under his. She's tingly, her skin like a live wire. Every touch, every brush of his lips or hands or eyelashes against her sends her into spiraling ecstasy.

Jace is pushing up her gown, up around her waist. His fingers stroke her hips once before he's pushing the nightgown up even further, up her quivering stomach, so he can kiss her here. Her head is heavy as her fingers find the silk of his hair and burrow there.

She feels him slowly inching his lips downward, and she's too far gone to even think of stopping him. She's bathing in blurry light and pleasure, and she can't think. She only gasps when she feels him roughly jerk her panties to the side. And then his lips are pressing once more, softly, against her navel, a warning. So she lifts her thousand-pound head and stares down her body at him, at his dangerous, sparkling eyes and his little smile.

And then she smiles back and her head falls back down because she can't keep it up. Her eyes close again, and she only _feels_. In the darkness, she feels the heat of his hands on her hips, feels the cold of the wind on her chest, feels the grit of the roof on her legs and arms, feels the shock of his lips going lower…

And she realizes something in a strange moment of clarity.

She's not so much flying as she is falling.

"Tell me something."

Clary lies sprawled out on the bed with Jace. Their legs are tangled a little. She feels hazy and disoriented, floating. She feels everything and nothing and it's beautiful.

"What do you want me to tell?" Clary whispers, turning her head. Her nose bumps against his as his golden, foggy eyes burn like stars into hers.

He shrugs. "Anything." He takes a drag off the cigarette and then hands it over to her carefully.

Clary inhales from it, as well, and holds the smoke deep within her lungs as she turns her head back and stares up at the ceiling. It's dark in the bedroom but the city lights dance and play, giving plenty of illumination. Clary watches closely, seeing shapes and movies in the lights.

"It's like watching the clouds, Jace," she breathes, passing back the cigarette.

"Mm-hm," he hums beside her vaguely.

"My daddy left me," she tells him, blinking up at the lights. "That's what I want to tell you. My daddy left me."

"Why'd he leave?"

"I don't know. He just left." Clary blinks, sees a flash of her father behind her lips. Crinkles at his blue-jean eyes. A little gray in his hair. A smile like the sun, like the heavens, like everything wonderful. Flannel shirts and old boots. The smell of books. Wire-rimmed glasses. Happy. Safe. "He said he loved me. He said I couldn't go with him, though." Clary blinks again, but only the blurry city lights dance in her vision, now.

"How old were you?" Jace inquires and then coughs a few times.

"Six. Or seven. I don't remember—isn't that funny? Jace, look, there's a squirrel up there, on the ceiling—in the lights. Do you see?" Clary reaches blindly over, smacks his chest.

"That's not a squirrel, Clary. It's _obviously_ a duck."

Clary says, surprised, "Oh!"

"Did you love your father?" Jace inquires. She feels his head turn towards her again, feels his warm, smoky breath on her cheek.

She's lost in the smoke. "Yes, very much."

"Was that nice? Loving him and all?"

"Oh, yes. It was the best thing, like eternal warmth, always being warm, even when you're scared." Clary closes her eyes briefly, tries to find that warmth again. It's more of heat, though. Jace is _hot_, like fire, she thinks. She thinks she'll get burned.

"That sounds nice," Jace whispers. He offers her the cigarette again but she waves it off.

"What is that, Jace? Why do I feel so _funny_?" Clary shifts suddenly, clenching her eyes shut to stop all the colors everywhere, but the burst beneath her eyelids, as well, following her.

"How do you know?" Jace asks, a bit excitedly. She feels the bed dip as he scoots even closer to her, props his elbow by her head. She can feel his eyes staring down at her, without even opening her own. "How did you know you loved your father? Tell me, Clary. Tell me."

"I don't know," she says. "I just knew."

"But how did you know? I want to know how, you see. It's very important I _know_."

"You can't know how you love someone because it's not something to know. It's not logical, Jace, it just is." Clary opens her eyes, stares up at him and his beautiful face. The lights dance behind him. His hair almost glows. He looks like an angel, and he takes her breath. She's so amazed that her lips part, her eyes going wide.

"Tell me something else," he pleads, his eyebrows pulling together. She notices vaguely that his pupils are so dilated that they are entirely black, almost, only the thinnest rim of gold possible showing.

"You're pretty," she says, her eyes drifting shut again.

"Thank you."

Clary finds herself yawning, her mind dancing in a haze. She mumbles, "You're welcome."

"No, don't go to sleep, Clary. Don't go back to sleep. I want to talk to you."

"We _are_ talking, Jace," she says.

"I want to talk to you _more_, Clary. Tell me something else. Tell me about something in your childhood. Please? I like stories. Tell me a story so I can go to sleep, too." She feels him shift around again until he's lying beside her, facing her.

She debates for a moment, wading through her memories that are even harder to catch than usual. Finally, she says, "I liked to paint and draw very much when I was little. So very much. That's what I wanted to be—a painter. More than a dancer or a singer or something. My daddy bought me this little paint set and I used it up so he bought me another and then another. I used them all up. I would paint as long as I could, all day and all night, if Daddy would let me. I had quite the collect of paintings, you know, and drawings, too. Daddy said I was good. He said he'd buy them, so he bought some of them, for some dimes. I went and bought another paint set with them. And then, I remember, one night Daddy was getting yelled at. And then he came into my room. I was scared. And he crouched down and said he was going away. I started crying because I didn't want him to leave me.

"That's the thing about love. It kind of cripples you in a way, makes you all confused and panicky. It's safe but not really." Clary yawns but goes on, her voice drifting off into the clouds of color behind her eyelids. "I asked Daddy to go with him. He said, 'I love you. You can't go. I'm sorry.' And then he left and I never saw him again. I had one last paint set left from him, but I used it all up and no one bought me anymore. And the stepfather found all my old paintings and ripped them. So I didn't draw anymore. I just didn't feel like it."

Jace is quiet for the longest time. Clary thinks he might have already passed out. But then, softly, he asks, "Do you regret loving your father?"  
Clary's mind is dulling, slowing. The colors fade slightly, becoming soft and muted and lulling. She inhales deeply, slowly, her body easing into rest. She can barely manage an answer to Jace's question. She says, "Sometimes."

* * *

**Please tell me your favorite lines, as usual! Everyone have a great night/day. **


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